MUD PIES  (sonnet)

At eighty, grandpa loves to make them  
As in a peaceful garden long ago  
Those slapdash pies he initialed M  
And carted miles to dazzle friend and foe.  
Now old pans of his wife's he packs full  
Of earth and water through fingers of glee  
Bending just slightly to arthritic rule  
And too busy to even wave at me.  
   
Such is the innocence crowning those pies,  
The secret lost happiness over so fast,  
When young hearts revel in the enterprise  
And each brown pastry is never the last.  
"Come in now! Come in!" I hear his nurse call  
As he looks up, frowns, and eyes the long haul.