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Poem Evokes the Glory of the Moment

Isn’t it pretty to think so?


Grandpa thinks with his hands folded behind his head
Isn’t it pretty to think so?
Yes, it truly is – pipe packed with tobacco as smoke rings cloud his head
The wrinkles were earned. He does not wish them away or wish them to be
They’re simply enclosed within the urn of eternity
Yet, isn’t it pretty to think so? Just for awhile and a while will come
The body plays it role too die - his soul will rise through the tobacco-scorched sky
Before this dawn of truth, thine eyes have pondered much – he sits in awe and wonder of the life to come by his grandchild’s touch.
Isn’t it pretty to think so? The porch creeks a beautiful melody as he rocks in his flawless chair – “isn’t it pretty? This music to my ears, what pleasure my calloused torn hands brought to the here, introduced to the now. This farm is my field of harvest. My spirit rich in reward to what it has sown. Isn’t this….” The porch chatters, interrupting his pure thoughts, more music to his ears, the trample of his grandson’s bare feet.
He simply inhaled his tobacco and resumed thought: “isn’t this sweet? What a moment to be me. Is this what they call free? It’s as if the joy rushed to my feet?”
The tears then fell from his sun-scorched eyes – eyes that burn deep blue with belief – he gazed upon the innocence radiating from his grandson. “I may never see him reach age nine”. Waves of tears flooded through the canyon calloused palms of the Farmer.
From his freckled cheeks he wiped away what he knew was not weakness, but pure, raw strength. He rocked once more as the smoke broke through the barrier of chapped lips.
Isn’t it pretty to think so?

“This moment is all I ever need. This breath is what I desire. I hope others take heed to these simple moments that get lost in the weeds. For I am just a farmer who has spent his days loving his family and growing wheat. Yet, I have learned how to live free.”

~ Anonymous Poem submitted

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