the grandfathers
their hands flinty with work
reaching down to take mine
smell of oil and liniment and wool
smoke rising
snow falling
their heavy shovels
and plaid coats
the names of old countries
~ Ralph Murre
If that sounds like an old one to any of you, well, it is. Kinda. In the spirit of revise, revise, revise, I boiled a fair to middlin' nineteen lines down to nine, and I think I like it even better. If I keep going this way, someday, I'll say nothing at all, and that may be best. ~ RM
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