Parlor Portrait

When Grandpa died and his clock still ticked, he fell from a ladder by a tree - nor could that clock on the wall predict when I died at age twenty-three. A traveling artist, who, out of luck, implored gramps (...how'd he know his name?) My grandpa was kind. A deal was struck. Soon his picture was in a frame. The parlor portrait's eyes would follow me, conveying every feeling. Kindness and cheer, I could swallow, but remonstration sent me reeling. A frisbee stuck in a tree, so high, Grandpa said he'd retrieve it for me. Just hold the ladder, please, small fry? and that's all that he asked of me. Nobody knows that story but me. I sway gently as the wind does blow, from a branch on that sycamore tree, but the eyes on the portrait know.