Grandfather Reflects

An infant's eloquence
persuades stern adults to his every whim,
commands without a word. Was that me?

Boy without a care, certain of himself,
his people and
in wonder at his world in which no doubt intrudes.

In the joy and strength of youth immortal,
unconquerable, it thrills me still,
but through perhaps imperfect memory.

Each thought and small enquire of my inner mind.
That goodness, malice, love, and hate lie there
side by side, waiting each their turn.

And in respect of passing gods,
ambitions gained and lost and unfulfilled.
At what was, or might have been, or might be still.

The bon[u]ed[u] remnants of my faith,
through experience desiccate.
Will it be enough, will it matter?

At the four and fifty years you gave me,
words to say you fail me utterly.
And then your death and what it means.

I cannot grieve for you,
but hold you still, close, within my very being
and in the springtime of my imagination.

And in the last, at what remains of my decay,
as time grows short and fear is quieted,
a curious serenity, anticipation.