such little things

he can't hear,
or see very well.
or walk far.
but he's still out there,
knees
in the dirt,
planting seeds,
plowing the ground
into small rows.
with his hands he feels
for ripeness,
when things grow, he
bends to smell
the skin, the vine.
knowing
all his life,
when to pick them,
or give them another
day or week
to get ripe.
he waters me
too in short calls
on a sunday night.
such little things as
this
seems to bring him joy,
keeps him
alive.