Circles of Silver.

Granite smoke coils behind

foggy, glass doors of the furnace.

Immobile, for a moment, then ascending,

as grandpa exhales silver clouds

drawn from a corn-cob pipe,

reclining motionless by the fire.

The smoke from both

stretches their fingers for Heaven.

Gray hair crowns and cascades

down my grandmother’s neck,

as withered hands strain

faded roots from the dirt.

Pearly sweat collects then falls,

watering the weeds she is uprooting.

The souls of both

still stretch their fingers for Earth.