Grandpa's Chair
Mountains survey checkerboard acreage
Valleys squint at lonely peaks
A storm is brewing, black nimbus gathering
Could the earth speak, it would shriek
A forlorn, gray cottage, streaked with the first slants of rain
Joints creaking, grandpa battens down the hatches
He secures the shutters, lights a welcome-warm fire
Then he bolts down every door's latches
Ready at last to sink into his chair, Grandma's voice startles
'Look up!' He sees he's forgotten the roof
Up the ladder he races, just in time
before his flickering candle goes poof
Safe from the storm, eyes tightly shut, Grandpa leans back
His dreams serene ~ in the morning, flapjacks
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