it is no longer six-fifteen in the morning,
and i am no longer watching the peels curl
down the length of the carrot before flipping
to the floor
i have been transported back to
nineteen eighty seven, or thereabouts,
and the peels of the present settle
upon the piles of sawdust that cover
the floor of grandpas workshop.
my hands are no longer my hands,
the peeler is no longer peeling carrots.
my hands have become grandpa's
and the peeler a plane, my hands
are smoothly peeling the surface
of some walnut or cherry,
the small curls flipping down
to the floor
i watch our hands, marveling
at how the strokes reveal the marbled
beauty of the grain lying below the surface,
and my tears missing grandpa mingle
with the onions, and suddenly
it is six-twenty-five in the morning
Poem: "Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots" Patrick Lynch
Photo: Unknown
