Old Things

Pocket Watch

 

The grandfather clock

Has lost its tick,

Last century's echo

Cradled in a closed palm.

 

Penknife

 

Blade dulled

From another continent's skin.

It whittled away hours,

Etched trails on maps long vanished.

 

Wooden Drawer

 

Swollen with secrets,

It cradles yellowed letters,

Breath of dust between each fold.

 

Rust Stains

 

Iron's blood

On the anvil of years,

Browning like autumn leaves

Pressed in a storybook.

 

Scratches

 

Witness marks,

Journeys scored deep

Where fingers traced,

And sweat mingled with wood.

 

This table—

A carpenter's silent testament;

My great grandfather's hands,

Worn smooth as river stones,

The infinite ticking of his heartbeats

Embedded in each grain.