grandfather's eyes

sunk deep into his old, lined face,
gleaming through tired shells,
i can see the beauty in his eyes.

the ancient pain and hope and love,
shining through layers of dusty memories,
deserving every tear and laugh,
remembering smiles, hands,

knowing what he is looking at,
old hands shape the dead wood,
curving and lining the surface,

not allowed to move because,
I'm sitting silent and still,
for my grandfather's eyes.