When the quicksand
of life inched up to her Adam’s apple 
 
It’s about time we went fishing,
gramps said, taking her delicate hand 
 
Remember sweetie, divorce is a dry canyon of
   one-winged birds
 
                     ***
Not many have what she had
Does gramps have a rub-off factor? 
 
He closed his 90-year-old
eyes and floated     away
 
He reaches through the moon
His arms are searchlights
 
                          ***
He is the only soul she cherished thoroughly
    he sings to tadpoles
       red salamanders dart
            dragonflies
                             spiral,
               swoop,     cruise
                
torn knees of his denims
once mended with thick strands
of raven, sunflower
 
to see his breath again in the blue air 
to laugh at his dirty jokes 

              After Jean Valentine