Grandpa would flash a spray of cool water
each morning on the panting gray cement
stones about the yard, colors and hues
of the earth’s minerals flushed deep
brought to life in small puddles
accumulated there near the clover tufts
holding tight in the cracks, the crevices
abutting the frame, the scene at large,
we pan higher than we did that day,
all of our life there in neat little
bunches of boxes in boxes where people we love
carry on, carry out their days, turning on and in
and out and back, to a different way as hope goes,
newly baptized, in deep commune, confirmed, wed to all,
in repose amid the somber hymns of concluding rites,
beneath grandpa’s spray, a flash of silver liquid,
an old man’s giggling face lost in the brilliant sun
of a promise forever solvent.

© Chagall ∞

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