My Grandfather’s House

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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.

2 thoughts on “My Grandfather’s House

  1. Ann

    Wow — this is beautiful, Suz. I so relate to the longing in these words — a particular feeling of loss rears up in me this time of year. The simplicity of line and voice makes this feeling in this poem even stronger. Hope to catch up with you one of these days, if our schedules allow.

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