Grandfather's Farm

The worn scythe hangs in the box-elder tree,
The wheelbarrow lies on its side by the shed,
The grindstone tips forward to kneel on the ground,
Aged beyond use, they recall the unsaid

Promise I made when I was a boy
And worshipped Grandfather to equal some day
The skill of his hands and walk in his stride—
I look at my soft hands. What would he say?