Like Julian of Norwich knew,
belief is something
you wear—there
but forgotten,
the khaki shoes
of my grandfather,
too tight but I keep them on,
the ancient plaid
and flannel, still pristine,
his bolo ties.
Not certainly for him
a career, simpler
more culinary, perhaps even the daily
bread and eggs
he never prayed over
or thanked
my grandmother for
or completely finished.
Homes and warehouses he built
couldn’t hold him.
His mother looking over
his bones
with the solemn gunfire behind
seemed like familiar war.
So what about clouds
now around the barn?
Wind, stench, dinner
scents all bend
in the bushes at nightfall,
and ancient aquifers
bubble into shale
beneath the lichen
and broken branches
of his apple trees.
My mother’s
father, is this you,
there, climbing in from
the reruns
to take back
your place, your workload,
your clean shirts?
read it, and glad for it.
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