My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor talks about the past
as if life came and gone away,
and fled him all too fast.

Instead he tells us anecdotes
from bouts of yesteryear,
applies them to our future woes
and morrow becomes clear.

My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor makes his life his lead,
nor yearns for golden reservoirs
to mollify a greed.

Instead he finds affinity
quelling all from anguish,
anger, ailment, and affliction;
To meliorate, his wish.

My grandpa smells not of cigar
nor unsheathes fists in wrath,
labors o'er no altercation,
nor judges in dispatch.

Instead he boldly molds and holds,
repairing ailing hearts.
He uses hands to reconstruct;
his fingers conjoin parts.

My grandpa smells not of cigar
but of ambrosia, sweet.
With gentle mouth and yellow eye,
his touch endures, replete.