Off that dirt road
to the old farmhouse
where Trouble always waited for me
in the barn,
and Grandpa was forever swearing
at the horses, and swatting them
with that broken tree branch.
Where that murky swamp
was the backyard
and the secrets lay engulfed in
that tipsy wooden canoe
but I wouldn’t go near them,
for fear of the
mystical mud.
And it was always crisply cool
at night
even in the summer.
So we’d take those night walks
under clear blue skies,
fastened back with glittering diamonds
that twinkled, like Grandpa’s eyes
when he told stories
of the war, the CIA and Colorado.

I would sit, entranced,
curiosity the strongest emotion
of a young child.
Blissfully unaware that it would be
the last time
I would see the sparkle of his eyes
reflecting the rolling countryside.