Solace

Grandfather, I’ve seen red granite
with your name cut in.
It was polished to unblemished sheen
and a robin sang
in a tree just above my head.

I don't know how you felt about land,
but I like my hands
gritty with soil I have dug.

My grandmother was the soil you broke
when you put seed down.
I have read
how you characterized women:
revered, but flawed.

Did it make you sore
that your wife never bore you a son?
Was your rage so great
it turned your legs to balloons?

Out of breath, you drowned.

It was only after you died that I came along,
the son you so long
had longed for.

So swift, so brief, so wanting
does this life go on;
so hopeful, and so disappointing,
so filled with grief.

Was it comfort you sought in belief?
As for me, I find
belief less convincing,
even adding stress.

A single tree giving shade,
and no other sound
except for a robin in the leaves
is what I need.

Now that you’ve arrived where there are answers,
is that what you’ve found?