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.