What's in a Name

Grandfather, I am looking at a stone
with your name cut in.
It is polished to unblemished perfection.

A robin sings.

And I wonder what you think of gardening.
I try to keep
hands dirty with the soil I've plowed.

My grandmother was the sod you broke
when you put down seed.
Were you angry she produced you no sons?
You were dead before this skinny weed shot up.

Yes, life goes on,
so hopeful and so disappointing,
so filled with grief.

You were of belief a true salesman.

I have also read in print
what you thought of women:
paragons of beauty, but also flawed

and in need of your protection,
if you will, like God.