Grandpas ghost sits at the dusty chair.
He gazes out the stain glass window.
Smoke rolls from his wooden pipe and collects in the sun beams.
He is drawn to a divine moment of a hummingbird as still as rested bones buried in waters beyond the horizon.
He is perched like an owl stitched to a high branch.
His wide eyes see such a tranquility of stillness.
The owls nest is where he dreams of such a scene.
Grandmother sits with closed eyes, the firelight outlining her face.
Her wine glass; slanted towards the floor, is held like a feather in her old hands.
Her heart catches the simple things, the constant motion of humans, bound to the anatomy of the earth.
The quakes and the structure of the water.
She places her fragile body in the calmest of winds and the stillest of seas.
Oh, how the kids with the cocaine veins pumping adrenaline to experience the purity of their own.
Their speediness towards the setting sun is endless and never tiring.
Oh, the kids with heroin hearts, shot up with crystallized eyes only slow and trapped in time towards clarity.
Then there are the ones born from the rising moon, they set clocks in their hearts that tick until the contrast has gone.
Only memories give life to such a dying breed, held true to time and space.
Only emotions give electricity to the numb held true to belief