What is the purpose of this poem? My grandpa is a mountain,
Brooding, looming, tall.
I stand in his shadow, silent as a stone.
Rattling rusty paint cans,
He gestures toward the shed. I gape
That shed's a squat gray mushroom,
Needing more than paint to fix.
The old man's hands are vises,
Prying open paint cans lightning fast.
Astonished, awed, I gasp aloud,
"Red, yellow, green-and PURPLE!"
My words explode like fireworks.
Anticipating anger,
my mouth shuts like a trap.
Grandpa merely dips his brush,
Paints a horse and hound.
"The horse I harnessed as a boy,
Dog was mine too.
Impulse strikes- a flash of fire.
I seize a brush,
Soon swishing, swirling pictures.
With each stroke, a story.
My words painting pictures.
We share that shed like one vast canvas,
His strokes to mine, my words to his.
We step back, gazing at the stories told.