Getting On

Getting On

i saw Grandfathers face on the
cave mouth, coulda used a shave.

as we clumb, sky did, in blues gradient

as my home screen, sheer yellow

lambs fleece formed meringue peaks.

i saw my own profile in some cirrus

beneath, the details so exact, i couldnt

tell what she was thinking.

white sun spilled onto the western hills like

Gold Medal flour from a gunny sack

Grandmother could mix in the morning.

Brothers smile a bear had scratched

into the shrinking poplars siding,

marked summers grave.