GRANDPA’S BOWL

The stove crackles; an old codger, wheezy,

stretches weary hands once more to warm,

the wheel whirrs, his son is making busy,

gouging out a wooden bowl to form.

Chirping an odd chant, the wheel is singing,

making flit the grandson’s watchful eye –

“Look, see what our Dad can do, he’s flinging

shavings from his hand; they sure can fly!

From their lordships’ grove the wood you’ve taken —

for the trough you’re making, who’s it for?”

““Grandad; — now his grip is weak and shaking,

lest he drops more crockery on the floor.””

“Teach me how!” — ““Why, look at you now, laddie,

why would such a thing be yours to try?!””

“When your own hand gets to be unsteady,

then your son will make your trough, that’s why!”

The stove crackling; codger crouched, eyes tearful,

his son takes his weary hands, to kiss,

stilled, the wheel; the grandson prancing, cheerful —

“Why’s the wheel not moving, Daddy, please?”