The afternoon is beautiful when, with
A light bulb spinning in your core, you make
The carpet dance with shades of emerald
And gold. Your stellar ghosts are flying high
Across the room with grandpa’s weary gaze
In awe of them. His toothless smile is why
I cry and wish I could grab all of them
And pamper him with golden crisp desserts.
The afternoon is beautiful, but time
Is running out; and while your light bulb spins
Forever, time incessantly does too.