I hold my grandson’s hand as my father
held mine, palm to palm with the warmth of life
in the fingertips of reassurance,
each step a question or pointing “look” -
Oh how many whys a day beholds
trucks and cats, jackets and trees -
time flickers, and I think of all the prayers,
word searches for the soul, I have struggled
to solve, and here in the gentle grip of trust
the answer flowers in the here I am
the impulse overflow that stills the thought.
How simple when my father’s shadow walks
in his namesake’s joy and I in ghost-mind walk
as zaydes walk on Friday nights, when heaven
and earth have come to rest and angel songs
are all that’s left, and blessings for each step.
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