As morning light unveils its grace,
A modest smile adorns each face.
No need for grandeur, just beguile,
A simple smile, a cherished style.
No eloquence in words to find,
Just a gentle grin, so unconfined.
It speaks of joy with whispers slight,
In the dialect of smiles, pure and bright.
A sunlit spark upon your lips,
Igniting joy with playful quips.
Unfussy, potent, this gesture mild,
A universal language, forever styled.
'Neath the sun's gentle, warm embrace,
A humble smile graces each face.
No need for grandeur, no elaborate style,
In simplicity, joy begins to compile.
A curve of lips, a radiant gleam,
A modest smile, a tranquil dream.
It whispers tales of warmth and ease,
In every line, a gentle breeze.
No intricate verses, no complicated wiles,
Just the enchantment of those simple smiles.
A language universal, tender and neat,
In moments of joy, hearts discreet.
So let it blossom like petals in a pile,
The allure found in a simple smile.
She strains to find her footing in orthopedic shoes
my grandmother's clop-clop walk to me
unbalanced
steadied by a backbone of faith
She bears a tattered, red carpet bag,
solid wooden handles, worn like her marbled hands
Grandma removes jam tarts and her Bible (smell enticing)
to tutor me for my Sunday School verses,
Psalm 23, that welds to memory
Her diligence that I adhere to the lines
despite my craven pull to tarts (a riveting obsession)
Unfussy delight when I learn the verses
Her glow, free floating,
a small harp ovation
Grandmother's carpet bag, stitched by history
brimming with the sweet lure of baking
upheld by her faith, like a pulse that hums devotion
in a drawn body softly folding into itself
Nothing can be swept aside
when a grandma voices validation
when generosity extends itself
when her walk thaws the ground
when words embroider love
ensuring preservation
Poem revised: April 25, 2021
He worked alone in cold, intensely black
peat water. Had to feel his way. Laid down
one hundred thousand concrete blocks, around
a million bricks, and carried on his back
uncounted thousands of the concrete bags
which shored the Minster up. Six endless years
he toiled in tedium. If bored to tears,
he never said so. And if he hit snags,
he overcame them on his own. Such men –
not loud, not proud, not looking for reward –
are just the type we really should applaud.
Perhaps there were more William Walkers then:
clear-eyed, unfussy, knowing what to do,
and quietly disposed to see it through.
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