For Cailin, Tommy, and Lucy
 
Grandfather, almost without his knowing,
collects small wonders in peanut butter jars
to share with his grandkids, as if sowing
some indelible question. In boxes made for cigars
are snail shells, brass keys, a quartz arrowhead.
There are fallen feathers, a cat’s eye, picks for guitars.
He carves house wrens for them in his back shed
among bright-bladed tools, raspberry basket,
bee smoker, and a runner-rusted sled.
There is an answer if they would just ask it;
the nature of desire which all generations repeat,
while his stories, as they grow older, are less fantastic.
They will remember him to their children, will be discreet
no doubt, his unfinished projects they unknowingly complete.