Pocket Knife
My grandfather made a gift of his pocket knife. It wasn’t in his will or anything, he just quietly took my hand, put the silver knife, shining after all these years, into my palm and folded his wrinkled, work worn hands around my twelve year old fingers. The handle was cool and smooth to the touch. It didn’t come with a card; no words were spoken–just the knowing look of a shared secret.
cutting through
the summer breeze–
single blade of grass
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