straight as a string


The pencil rests
between two fingers and a thumb,
it waits for a hidden command
some semblance of instruction
a point from which to start.

Out the window, there is a digging sound
it reminds me of grandfather and his old
push plow, my God how it bit into the ground
row after row, straight as a string
I marveled at the precision
and at how strong he always seemed.

He planted potatoes in March,
a few new potatoes would be dug 
when the green beans were picked
together to be canned and saved
against the cold winter weather
the rest were left to mature into baking size.

Sometimes when I close my eyes
I can see him in his garden 
pushing that old plow 
or hoeing down weeds.

My eyes open and the pencil
moves, row by row
straight as a string.