Sunday, October 14, 2007



My grandpa Harris
Was sick so long
So long before he died.
But as he left,
He reached right out
And touched all those
He loved.

The night he died,
My mother dreamed
From far in another state,
That he stood at the
Foot of her bed.
Nothing he said,
But clear she knew,
He was happy and well
Once again.

And in his own house,
The night that he died,
The clock began to tick.
He’d meant to fix it
For many long years
And never quite got it done.
The dead clock lived
The night he died
And so I know that he tried
To leave a kind message
For those that he loved
And had to leave behind.

Oct. 13, 2007


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