Grandpa Humming
Slowly, that summer
We woke to old notes
Bent a half step up
The way wood warps
Porch boards,
Mandolins,
C to C# from the dew,
Bowing the neck
And trellis,
Playing curve down your back.
Grandpa,
The phantom limb
One only feels
When humming early pieces,
Shows itself:
A foot. Wooden.
With ordinary pitch,
Carved clean from mahogany.