Grandfather's Shotguns

You’re a bitter cold winter without the snow, 

potential to be beautiful wasted on dry skies. 


I’ve got my firm footing against this season’s windfall, 

and you’re a junk yard against the walls of time.


Forecast calls for a storm front coming up from the gulf, 

fingers crossed for icy roads and school cancellations

at the bottom of that same news channel

at six a.m. 

At six thirty in the morning. 


Old man, front porch. Both creaky with a new clarity, 

rocking chair against the whistling air,

and a spittoon restless for rain. 


I’m a dead season with potential for color,

but the leaves already fell off my trees. 


I’m a dead mind with potential for direction, 

but I’m all things to all people, overextended and drained. 


I’m a bitter cold winter without the snow,

potential for fulfillment disappointed by empty clouds, 

unable to retain your offers. 


Old man wisdom is creaky as his front porch,

loading his gun beneath the awning and above the ground.

One thing to one Person. 


His grandson sees his firm footing against the walls of time, 

and he is all things to everyone,

in an instant.