"my grandfather's bucket..."

my grandfather had an old
bucket he used to stir molasses
into oats for the horses,
to harvest tomatoes from the garden,
to gather kindling for the fire,
and bring in pine boughs for the
mantle at christmastime...

but in the summer,
his bucket was the place where babies
splashed on hot days under the willow tree,
it held a mountain of ice for rootbeers on
the fourth of july,
and when we came back from picking
potatoes in fields of black dirt,
his bucket was a washtub for our muddy feet.

then one day,
my grandmother asked me if I wanted
his pocketwatch,
the baseball signed by babe ruth,
a set of cufflinks, his collection of coins...

but all I wanted was the bucket
that rusty, dented old bucket 
he'd sat beside while babies splashed,
and horses pawed the grass beside
the barn...waiting for
sweet oats and the familiar
comfort of his hand