A squirrel shields his acorn,
watches as I walk the tree-lined path
toward Granddad's house. Gusts rustle
the lingering dried leaves above me.
Ahead, his curved back frame shilly-shallies
toward his work-shed.

He leans against the log cabin,
pulls off his cap and thrashes it against his leg.
As I approach him, a jovial grin emerges,
advancing forward I offer a helping hand,
he jerks loose, mutters and smirks,
attempts to stand straight and take on youthful steps.

I've come to help him cut down
a magnolia tree in the front yard,
blooms have long wilted and dropped...
the decayed trunk, an admonition.