he had that ancient stride,
the one of a farmer
scouring over some field
in search of something
deeper than the soil
(oh, what a field is to
a farmer whose seen
the soldiers march across
the sprouting seed
on the way to Elysian!),
and like the long stretch
of soy in silence before him,
he stood to remember the
many fields of Falls past,
while a brisk wind would
tap against his cheek,
where one might think
that winter’d want to last,
they kept the words from his lips,
though let his eyes speak wise,
and humbled by a nervous laugh,
we couldn’t help but wonder
whether he knew how he stood,
in our eyes, like the heroes
who had far surpassed
all the expectations of
anyone who’d been a grandfather.
