Thursday, August 19, 2010

The Heirloom

I carry her now
As she carried me.
The weight I feel
No one can see, like
The grandfather clock
Passed to the next
Generation to keep
Innards wound,
Heart of it ticking.
A gleam of wood
Stands straight
Against the wall,
So well preserved.
She smoothes it
As she hobbles by,
One gnarled walnut
Hand upon the ivory
Handle of her cane.

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