In memory of a grandpa who is revered and honored by a granddaughter from afar. An irony of two generations sharing a common passion for words but had been unable to articulate them to each other.
He sits there
A blur in the night
Frailed by years
Awaiting twilight.
His gaze – abstracted,
Is fixed on her
Momentarily distracted,
Sees but a stranger.
Of hopes that swell
Her juvenile heart
For tales he’ll tell
But never start.
She waits to grow
And grows to wait
That she may know
Yet comes too late.
The chasm of years
Neither one can cross
Dissolves to tears
And loss so gross.
Alas-
How poignant it is
To grow up and find
Your heroes deceased
The future unsigned.
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