Monday, July 16, 2007

Tiny Hands



Bent and battered
With fading paint
It waits for tiny hands
To rest upon
The sagging cab
While pushing 'cross the lands
Of imagination
Filled with dirt and grass
And leaves and sticks
For building roads
And towns and
Bridges over creeks
Where live the toads
It rolls about its work
To the sounds of voooomm
And eeeerrk and bblluuudum
Filling the air
Beneath the tree
Where once it labored
Alongside the spoon
And a coffee can
That are now only
Memories for a grandfather
Who can hardly wait
For those tiny hands.

7 comments:

WomanHonorThyself said...

aw...I have no words..smiling here..:)

Texas Red said...

it won't be too long.

bigwhitehat said...

Clean that thing up and give it some paint.

helen1 said...

That little truck has it's own story to tell. Shouldn't be changed in anyway.
HJM

Panhandle Poet said...

HJM: You don't have to worry. That little truck will stay just like it is -- it may get a little more wear from new little hands though -- in a couple of years.

Incognito said...

awwww... sweet poem!

Janie said...

Congrats on the arrival of tiny poet, by the way!

Like your daughter says, it won't be long!

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