She sits on the stoop, head tilted to the sky,
As the late evening sun breaks through the cloudy day,
Before turning in for the night.
The air is crisp,
She pulls her hands neatly into her lap.
Her newly planted seeds beside her,
Buried by her chubby finger carefully poked into the soil.
Left to rest there with her faith in its power to grow.
The seeds down too deep to feel the touch of the sun,
But not too deep to be forgotten by my daughter, who keeps them company.
I am struck by this vision of her and her seeds sitting on the stoop.
Her grandfather, my father, lies like those seeds under soil.
He passed before she was born.
She will never run to him down that path when he pulls up from NY.
When he comes to visit,
He will come like the late evening sun at the end of a long cloudy day.
And I will be sitting there beside her
With his faith in our power to grow here ,