Grandpa's Workshop or Time Travel, Carrots

suddenly,
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