My Grandfather (2010)
By Matt Barrett
My Grandfather whose cheeks are orange sandstone canyon walls,
Whose hair is glass splinters and cedar chips.
My Grandfather whose eyes sting like smoke,
Whose gaze is a chess master, a surgeon
My Grandfather whose voice is a crackling fire,
Whose lap is a lost island.
My Grandfather whose shoes are large grey stones that have been wrestled smooth by the tide
Whose thick socks he stole off a sleeping black bear.
My Grandfather who smells like timelessness and the backcountry,
Whose warmth is the sun-warmed rock you press your cheek on while lying down.