ticket home for the soul

under the grape vine canopy

i watch him as he sits under the grape vine canopy, threading magic through his fragile, calloused fingers. turning his attention to another stitch, he repeats the meticulous process of sewing the bruised fabric that aches with a need for repair. his hand stretches towards the 1970s radio lulling itself to sleep with its own ramblings, glancing serenely at the table beside himself.  also scattered beside the table are  items of little importance to those who don't rise to wear the mountains on their backs every morning: axes, buckets, and several wilting weeds. they clothe the winding, cracked concrete stairs that slither down the eastern front of the house. 

his garden caresses the rich earth farther than the eye can see in one direction. the soil cradles tomatoes that reach up to kiss the liquid sun every morning before breakfast and holds blooming roses that struggle underneath her ankles. a million pears lie scattered in the lush blades of grass, congregating under the paling sky. 

piercing the air that dances in the exhales of the wind, the angered calls of roosters puncture the occasional silence in the same way a random call on my grandfather's nokia would.  also bringing life to the silence are the melodies of birds that linger, as if suspended in the air, and then vanish as quickly as they came. they accompany the mountains in greeting the yawning, blooming sun as he extends his fist and cracks the sky, crashing into the stars and bringing down the silent hours. the entire earth--from the glistening tops of the grape vines satiated with thick droplets of sun rays, to the bees that fall for the flowers--seems to quiver and shake violently in anticipation of a time so sought after yet so dreaded when it comes time to reveal itself. 

i am hit with melancholy worries, grandfather. how can i lower my defenses, crouch to the sunburned earth and simply feel? how can i forgive myself and begin again? because i know girls are like flowers, but i haven't yet found my roots. 

-titled: oh, how can i feel, sink in,  and drown in this beauty, grandfather! how can i get drunk on the beauty of life when i know how it will all end?