Poem: Grandpa's Grave

Grandpa’s Grave

Softly in the breaking dawn I rest here

Drowsy still from the early rising in

Morning so early as to be confused 

With night except for the dawning eastern

Light of northern summer. Here I sit on 

Your lichen covered stone seeming as old

As if it were one from centuries past

Save for its lack of wordy epitaph,

Yet only yesterday it seems I was

That boy upon your knee smelling the soft

Scent of pipe smoke and Old Spice aftershave.

You left me with stories of landscapes here,

Camas blooming, fiddle music at night

And the ever ticking sounds of your watch.

If I’d known it was prelude to ancient 

Stones in early morning graveyards I would 

Have avoided your ancient words and songs

But here I am, happy with your great gifts.

June 2025

About This Poem

I wrote this shortly after Memorial Day last year, but I'm including it here because we're approaching All Saints Day, Halloween, Dio de Los Muertos, and all that. So, it seems appropriate here to remember my dead. While I titled the poem Grandpa's Grave, the description is of my great grandfather who died when I was 13 or 14. Who thinks of inheritance at that age? I don't suppose I inherited a lot of financial wealth from him, but my great-grandfather left me with a great heritage and knowledge of my home in north-central Idaho and that's what I wrote about. The photo is the one thing I did inherit from him: his pocket watch.