Red clay like a silken glove
Glittering specks of sand dusted away.
Wresting an overgrown squash.
Too big to eat, too young for seed,
Set on a windowsill to color dreams.
Light freckles on tanned skin,
Sweat damping hair carefully set
A water sprinkler makes rainbows
Birds skitter back and forth
Corn shucked in the afternoon shade
The evening sun calls your name
While snake doctors dance
Settling in a chair for the gloaming.
Words your grandfather said
That awkwardly followed your youth
To an incredulous friends laugh
In tune to the bright red sun suspended
Above the ridge to the West
The words still hold the magic
Of a gentle man with hands of leather
Who spoke of rhymes and things long gone.
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