To my newborn grandson

There was usually a warning. 'If you're
So set on it,' my Gramp would be told, 'go ahead.
But keep in mind he's just a little boy.'
That was Gran. While she was talking
He'd be studying whatever piece of wall
He was nearest to, or adjusting his hat,
The straw one with the black band
Around the bottom of the crown. Then
Out the cottage's back door we'd both go,
Him carrying the two-hander.

It was shaped like a harp. This is
Seventy years later, a long while for
A simile's slow glow to be mounting
Towards a page's, this one's, surface, but
The saw's shape never wavered.
...