Awakened in the early morning,
dreaming of my grandfather,
my fathers father.
He sat in the old house,
Gadsden, Alabama,

Puting gold guild on an old picture frame.
Those huge steel mill forged hands,
working with the delicate precision
of a gifted angel.
Elbows pushing the golden foil
into the center crease of the frame.

His face kept changeing,
from a younger man in black and white,
like the photos I've seen numerous times,
to the older man I recall so fondly.

He was speaking calmly to me,
as he always did,
yet I couldn't quite make out
what he had to say.
Straining, reaching
with ears that seemed deaf,
I couldn't hear a single word.

Driving in new morning light,
over whelmed with strange sadness,
realizing, that for the life of me,
I can't recall the sound of his voice.