In his time,
germs were found to be everywhere,
especially in his ball-and-socket joint
which was welded together by tuberculosis germs
before pasteurized milk became a rule.
Grandfather ordered his shirts done at home
because (he demonstrated) the downtown launderer
spat germs on the iron to test the heat.
Flies (he caught midflight in his cupped hand)
could crop-dust germs over lunch,
and one’s mouth grew germs quickly enough
between the meal and the toothbrush.
He gathered us at Central Lake every summer
to learn the rules. He explained the use of
lie (to recline) and lay (to place or put):
because of his lame leg, he could lie
comfortably only in the canoe, so we must
lay it gently on the sand, keeping its
irreplaceable wooden frame from rocks.
At Central Lake, one could get hold
of things that go wrong. One could nail a sign
on the birches to save their delicate skins.
One could avoid shampoos or detergents that foam
the lake. One could rinse diapers in a bucket
far up the hill to filter the dirty water
through the ground. One could wait
one full hour after meals, and only swim
across the lake guarded by the rowboat.
One could follow the rules and get results.
When Grandfather was ninety-four
he was still getting results.
In the cottage, he heard the wind chimes
answer to an ancient wind.
Someone pulled diapason
on the pump organ, and he called back
a perfectly metered hymn.
Muttering through the fir trees, he
was able at last to discuss the day’s mail
with his dead wife, who knew what to do.
And every morning and evening,
he stoppered his ears, hitched his lame leg
over the dock, and buried himself in the lake,
only his nose rising for air. He broke through
the elements as cleanly as a machine.