Poetry: Wisps in the Wind

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Grandfather needed no one, his hands clean

From the soil that provided solitude

And nourishment, his mind shaped by senses

Both common and immediate, his words

Steam-cleaned, spare and considered, his motion

Weighed by the meaning of a good day’s work.

His grandson lives in a storyboard world,

Hands filthy from markets, his mind clutching

At wisps in the wind, his phrases pasted

From memory, his motion a cold blink.

In this state, surrounded by grandchildren

As helpless as he, he damns the system

That gave them birth and builds a barbed-wire fence

To imprison the thought that he needs them.

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