Dust
to dust, and ash to ash,
Granddad’s jar just fell down — crash!
He’s flipped his lid; in grit I skid.
How will I rid this flying dirt
before somebody might get hurt?
Up in smoke, now a payback joke,
Granddad liked a laugh or two,
and even cremated, I think he knew,
that I would groan at what he’s done.
I loathe housework — it’s never fun.
In memories of times well spent,
I smile a sad smile, and all the while
as I am bent
to my task of sweeping the floor,
I remember the man whom I adore.
Granddad’s laughter sounds so near —
I hear him chuckling in my ear.
And now I must
dust.
|
|
