and he smiles slowly,
his eyes crinkling
like a Samurai's.
He has no use for nature
but he faces the garden.
His belly is a monument
of its own,
rising up and down
as he snoozes.
In the late afternoon
the sun loses its warmth
and my grandfather
is wheeled inside,
his heavy black shoes
resting on the bar.
Dated and tarnished
as an old coin,
he once traded in furs,
sables and minks.
Nothing, not even value,
is timeless:
We will bury him.
Baron Wormser
WELL·BEING
A visit to the chiropractor, an extra
Glass of sherry, Boswell before bed;
Thus inspired by well-being, I stir the mundane .
Here are messages and little causes in
