My grandfather’s pocketknife has seen use since long before my birth,
Worn in his jean pocket
For cutting bale twine
And building new fences,
For the mischievous crafts he’d scheme out of love
And the gritty work he’d dirty his hands with after.
Now the metal rusts into the color of its handle,
It feels fragile as I carry it,
Just strong enough for one more task:
Forging the tie from grandpa to me,
Across age and death,
And building new memories
To keep in my pocket beside it.