His Hand

My great-grandfather let me hold his hand

When I walked with him about the land.

I loved the way he used his stick

To poke at rocks and moles;

He showed me earthen runways

And where the snakes had holes.

And all the fields were daisies

And all the skies were blue ---

For I was only seven

And he was seventy-two.

He took me also near the barn

To see the colt at play;

He took me up into the loft

Where the kittens slept in hay,

And he was very silent

While I chattered like a brook.

They tell me he was handsome

With a tall and noble look,

But the kind clasp of his fingers

Was all of him I knew ---

For I was only seven

And he was seventy-two.

~ Mary Newlin Roberts