My Grandpa's Cap

The morning wind whooshes, fresh and cold,
In the late-November back yard, just after sunrise,
And my head is warmed by my Grandpa's cap,
Red-plaid wool, found in the closet, 100 years old
At least --- And as the sun shines in my eyes,
The gold-brown oak leaves scatter across the grass,
I consider roots and prairie turf and days gone by,
And shiver at the image of forlorn frigid days
Spent in homes built of true grit and sod,
The Scandinavian pioneers praying to God
That the land they bought to be free of kings
Would, someday, lead to warmer better ways
To live --- And things, they did get better,
For sweat and luck brought abundance for all,
And Grandpa bought his cap to hunt for deer,
In the happier orange-colored Fall...
This same cap sits on my balding brow,
Reminding me of my ancestors' journey,
Through the cold grass, with hope, until now...