by July 11, 2024 0 comments

For my grandfather

The elderly face of the old man
shimmers like worn stone in shadows
of banyan tree. His blossoming
wrinkles beam. Stories fall like pebbles
sneaking into the pool of memories.

For the old man, the rock is not
some chemical substance, nor
is it volcanic magma, an instant
congealed product, but the child
of the mountain, slowly growing.

The old man’s eyesight is failing, yet
he can still see the will and resilience
of a rock that he can bring home
as a grindstone to sharpen the sickles
of his sons, or even his grandsons.

editors note:

Submission makes sharp. Listen, sons! – mh clay

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