I dreamnt of grandfather again;
& in a field he was pulling back the green skin on corn,
I was eight walking carefully over the cracks in the dirt.
His boots were dirty & he spoke to me,
rough hands touching this plant & that, telling
about planting seeds.
He named the things of the Earth;
I was impressed but did not listen,
distracted by the cattails in the distance,
some blackbird with red-banded wings.
I was remembering the tickle of nostrils as
the neighbor's horses teased sugar cubes off my hands,
another trick he taught me.
I didn't remember the words for the trees around me,
I just left the landscape to daydream of some fantastic creation,
living inside my head on most days with only
glimpses of the way the green grass stalks blew in the wind.