Poetry

As a child of twelve

I liked sitting on the old army cot

Of grandpa’s screened front porch-

Listening to his stories

Of walking to school four miles

Each day and in blinding snow-

And I could feel a shiver

With each step he took,

With each breath

He filled the frozen air with.

And I liked sitting on that cot

With grandpa

Watching him smile

At each story he recounted-

And grandpa never tired of it-

Like a tape recorder

He went on and on-

And I learned a lot from grandpa-

He never lied.

Even in his final hour

His eyes twinkled

Like summer stars from above-

Each of his stories

Becoming a falling star

In my pocket.

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