The True Poet

My grandfather was
The true poet
The way he
Tilled the land
With his hands
Beneath the sun

He seemed to
Touch the sky
With his thoughts

My grandfather was
The true poet
The way he
Joked with
His mule
As they rode
The two of them
Alone
In the night

He seemed to
Reach the moon
With his laugh

My grandfather was
The true poet
The way he
Smoked his cigarettes
On the porch
Like a train
In the wind

He seemed to
Graze the trees
With his breath

My grandfather was
The true poet
The way he
Squinted his clear
Blue eyes
Beneath the
Brim of
His sombrero

He seemed to
Pierce the clouds
With his stare

My grandfather was
The true poet
The way he
Wrote the
Earth
With his poems

He could
Not hold
A pen
With his hands