May 16, 2012
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When people ask
About my grandfather,
I just say,
“He is doing fine.”

To me, though,
He is more than just a fine, simple man.
A hearth for his passion
Setting his eyes a blaze
Gentle hands cradle his work.
A piece of wood, carved into a mallard.
Smoothing its neck of knicks
a habit that grew
From a limited childhood
Brings him joy still.

Flying Air Force
Maintaining engines
He “keep ‘em flying.”
Airplanes soaring
Not one fell because of them.
Far did he travel for those planes,
Yet he still came home.

Squirrels fall victim to his shotgun
Once they cross the line into his domain.
Hitting one, two, they fall.
Survivors taunt him
For only a little while.

But Paw never did that with me.
He showed me the ropes of crabbing.
Submerging the net just below the surface,
Tugging gently on the lines,
Together dozens.

I am your youngest,
Your hugger,
Your sunshine.
You love me unconditionally,
For which I am grateful, but
Do I tell you enough
How much I love you?
I don’t think I could say it
As much as you show it
In such small, numerous meaningful ways,
Everyday, a gift.

How do you stay true
To your

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