Grandpa's Lighthouse

This morning grandpa

boarded his sailboat.

 

Silently at work

with thick stubby fingers

and rough farmer’s palms

he steered the boat 

away from grandma’s house

out into the Oklahoma 

wheat fields.

 

He passed the red pickup

obediently waiting in the yard

and slid by his cows 

as they perked up ears

sensing significance.

 

Nodding to these companions 

raised from birth 

as children of his own,

his quiet eyes remained 

on the lighthouse ahead.

 

The sun began to rise 

and soon grandma 

would find him gone 

and the generations 

would flock home

called by a sweet whisper 

of the land coursing 

through their veins.

 

By then their guardian

will have reached his lighthouse

just in time to light the lamp,

pour a cup of coffee from

the silver thermos,

and sit back to watch

the wheat grow

for all eternity.