World Poetry Day- New Poem
In honor of World Poetry Day, a new poem, inspired by an old book and my Grandfather.
DUST
Grandfather died when I was 8
We inherited his some of treasures
Mostly books
But not just any books
Classics bound in leather
Embossed with gold
Paperbacks too
Faded covers
With yellowed pages
There was Anna Karenina in two volumes with some illustrations
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare
But my favorite to look at was Leaves of Grass
It had a strange cover made of suede leather
It had a leather tie around it
As if the words could not contain themselves
And would jump off the page if given the opportunity
No matter how they were cleaned
They always had a thin layer of dust
They smelled slightly musty and old
But I loved them
I spent my summers reading
Whenever I finished a book
I would examine the shelves
Run my hands across the spines
Feeling the leather bump across my fingers
I picked out books that looked interesting
Carefully looked through the pages
With hope I would find a clue
A piece of my Grandfather from the past
I desperately wanted more
I wanted to understand him
Where he came from
What his thoughts were
What his favorite book was
Sometimes I would find a handwritten note
Waiting for me in the margins
An underlined passage
Calling my attention
Little clues to put the pieces together
I categorized his books
Piles of books to read now
Books to read when I was older
But I was sometimes afraid to touch them
Some of them were so old and falling apart
Loose pages
I didn’t want to lose anything else from him
When I was nine
I found a tiny blue leather book I hadn’t seen before
The pages were thin and edged in gold like a bible
But it wasn’t a bible
I looked for the title
The Childs Garden of Verses Etc. by Robert Louis Stevenson
Finally an age appropriate book
I carefully flipped through the pages
Looking for pieces of my Grandfather in the margins
Then the flipping stopped
There was something there
Hidden in the book
It was a tiny four-leaf clover
I had not found a four-leaf clover before
There was no telling how old it was
How lucky I was to find this
I imagined my Grandfather
Sitting under a tree with my mother and her brothers
Reading to them from that book
As they ran off to play he spotted the four-leaf clover
I could see the smile on his face as he found it
Picking it with his young fingers
Examining the clover
Turning it over in his hand
Then carefully placing it in between the pages for later
I carefully set the book down
I reached for the clover
As I picked it up it quickly turned to dust
Just like the memories of my Grandfather had begun to fade
