Relic

We are taking everything out of the house.
This includes your coat--
rough green-brown with large buttons, hard to manipulate.
The weight, as I lift it, surprises,
but hanging from my shoulders, I see
how men could walk in it, the thick fabric falling
below their knees.
I am a usurper in this heaviness
(Midwestern woman in the coat my grandpa wore);
I know only the lint of it:
Maui sunsets which still couldn't rival the Illinois farm's,
hot showers sneaked in the officers' quarters,
comrades who presented an enemy's teeth at a hospital bed, and
the enemy's wallet with faces of family.
I know when Japan surrendered everyone went out howling
but you sat and thought.

Pencil In Time

Drawing,
I see what I couldn't see
at eight--my grandpa's
strength, a youngness
compared to older days
(sharp with proximity)--
and what I always saw,
the giant hands,
marvelously knuckled.
I hope one day to work
such storied hands.

Nature and Nurture

When I trek to the bird feeder,
following my own footprints
the few yards through yesterday's snow,
my heart retraces other paths with other persons:

Dad's momma, halfway up an Ozark hill,
with her post-Great Depression blend
of the frugal and generous, scraping
every last scrap of leftover food stuff
into the ditch, for whatever creature comes by--

Mom's dad, concocting meals for dogs and cats,
calves and cardinals and finches--
each feeding following another
in the measured pace of the farmer's aging gait.

I come in, and think of coffee break--
something sweet and warm salvaged
from the rigors of the day.