When I ask grandfather,

“Why is your face so wrinkled?”

Mother hushes me,

Grandpa smiles,

I keep quiet.

 

But as the years go by,

My childhood question unanswered,

I come to a simple conclusion.

 

While I write poems

onto a paper,

Time writes poems

Onto grandpa’s face.

 

Each wrinkle has a memory

Whether good or bad

Each wrinkle holds

A different story.

 

I could not write

1,000 poems

To match the stories

Grandpa’s face

can tell me.

 

If you touch his eyes

You are reading

The poems of

Laughs and

Smiles.

 

If you touch his forehead,

You are reading

The poems

Of frowns and

Frustrations.

 

One day,

I hope that

My face

Can tell a story

As good as yours.