My grandpa had this Summer evening rite.

He’d come out to the porch and sniff the air,

pull forth an ancient rocker painted white.

Then settled in, he soundly stirred that chair.

He’d sit with one long leg upon a knee,

his hat’s soft brim bent over drowsy eyes.

At times he’d scarcely move, rock peacefully,

and voice his pleasure by long breathy sighs.

As Sun sank low and fled, Gramps’ rocking slowed,

and on his suntanned face a smile appeared.

He finger-waved to stars in secret code,

and at the pale-faced moon as thin clouds cleared.

“A man is blessed,” he’d say, “if he’s content.

and, Petey, I am that, a happy gent.”