Grandfather's Mountain
His hands were builders hands
as God's hands might be
and planks of wood held spirits
and his house came forth
out of those hands uniting
with the spirit of the trees
a mingling of his spirit
with theirs joining together
in the making of that house
on his mountain in Santa Cruz.
And when the deer came,
away from the hunters, to his house
he would let them be
and the morning I remember most
was waking on the porch
and peering down at me a huge buck
in whose eyes a gentle sensibility
reflecting back the spirit
of the trees and my grandfathers hands
that built that house.
Those eyes told me-
a carpenter of words I would be.
Scott Malby
Posted over on A Little Poetry
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