We Both Wear Blue Jeans

He leans on his dirty garden hoe,
I break the earth with mine. I am part
of my Grandpa, who tucks his deformed thumb
into his right pants pocket. "A bear
got me," he claims. Mining muscles
dance and curve around his arms.

We work in Grandma's garden; roses mainly,
enclosed by a fence to keep deer out.
He stands on hardened ground, alfalfa strewn.
Wind bends the field, weeds left and right.
My guardian angel stands nearby.
We both wear blue jeans.

The sun shines down on the hilly country,
plain and slowly seems to fiddle love and life
between Grandpa and me in Fiddletown,
his town, my heavenly getaway.

And we commune, alone,
sharing Heaven.