Gramp Poem by Cynthia Jobin

He has become a thought
I take for Sunday rides,
bones in a woolen bag
hard-going into the back seat
rattle as we pass red orange
maples loosening their leaves,
let loose, now here
now there, upon the universe.
These days I take
an empty jar along
in case there is no proper
stopping place, I worry, I
provide, I hurry past
dead leaves. He
only rides, at will with,
loose on a stream
through Autumn into gold,
so old he has become
a thought that warms,
spills out the car window
into friends. For him
it is the trees that move,
the car is still.