In grandfather’s village the people
pass by
my large window on the living room
side.
All bundled in blankets of clothing
so snug
it’s as if the snow were giving a
hug.
My sisters and I watch them pass
and then disappear through our looking
glass.
Their feet raise not into car nor
carriage
but stay firmly upon the ground.
The distance they cover from day to
day
is measured by footsteps with barely
a sound.
Buildings square with angled eves
provide safe shelter unconditionally.
In grandfather’s village as evening
draws near,
we retire to the kitchen which lies
to the rear
and wait for our father to return to
the nest;
there’s warmth with his presence
as he comes home to rest.
At night the men come to light the
lamps
that twinkle like stars when seen
from afar
and everyone sleeps with a blanket of
hush
that quiets the body and mind’s
anxious rush.
Slumbering dreams bed down with the
coals
not stirred until morning into flames
and souls.
In grandfather’s village each day is
its own;
each person – a family –and each one
has a home.
We hold on to each other, and to
God’s good grace
and wish that everyone could live in
such a place.
