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