My Grandpa at Eighty-Four

He sets his book down,
and now the window is his open territory.

There is the church, the trees, the cars
moving by: he can see the things

that matter little to him now.

The light on his face
gives him an ageless appearance:

he has been alive in each decade
of this century, and looking back,

he says, is like looking into the shapes
and forms of himself

he can now hardly recognize.

As he talks, his hand sometimes
caresses the top of his head,

smoothing out the hair that remains,
and sometimes he closes his eyes

and tilts his head back,
the memories rushing in so strongly

there are no words left
to bear them, no words

to frame them, and it is here
that we embrace and part —

I am left with the image
of light on his face,

his closed eyes heavy
with the years inside them.