The Keeper of Tales

Grandfather's stories, 
covered with the dust of old Colorado,
come alive in the places between words,
where the mines whispered about gold,
and the mountains echoed adventure.

He talked about the West,
where the sun bled into the earth,
each tale a reminder of the grit and the gold
that ran through the veins of the land.
And of men with rough hands and weary backs
who chased dreams buried deep in unforgiving rocks.

His words created such a vivid scene—
miners’ lamps twinkling like distant stars, 
their light dancing on mine walls 
as picks clanged into ore.
I listened, breathless and wide-eyed.

Now, his voice lingers
in the spaces of my mind,
like the shadows of the majestic mountains,
guiding me through the rough 
and winding paths of my thoughts.

Grandfather, the storyteller 
still speaks, and I still listen—
each word echoing in my memory 
like the fall of a pebble in a well,
each story a stone
in the path I walk today.

—Steven Wade Veatch