My grandfather’s house
was small. Since his death
it has been shrinking.

Barely taller than grass
vanishing height, breadth.
Like a boat, sinking.

My grandfather’s porch
where he often sat –
archaeology.

My grandfather’s door
stands closed, at a slant
without eulogy.

No place to enter
No one to listen.
Nowhere to sit down.

No man’s voice gentler
than a child’s whisper.
Only the walnuts

untended, falling
must miss Pappaw’s hands
opening their husks

yellow green, sticky.