For My Grandfather

The hollow whisper of bone against pine

He is rattling in the hush of earth

unsettled now in unquiet times.

I knew him as an old man, hands withered,

worn with work-filled days

But he was young once, and went to war.

For me he played his guitar

sang country songs while his fingers

flew up and down on the strings.

I think of him and his silent hands still speak, 

a rhythm etched in time.

His old heart would burst if he could see me now.

 

I hear him pluck in the weight of his absence, 

strings humming with a ghost’s breath, 

rough fingers worn like weathered roads

His memory is like dusk settling over a quiet song. 

He plays in echoes, not lost but shifting in the wind — 

a tune only I still hear.