The businesses in town seemed mundane, mostly,
then sunlit glass formed gowns appearing ghostly.
Our paths are singular or they are joint,
but all are going to the vanishing point.
Transmitted from our hearts or from church spires,
our prayers stream to You as though through wires.
My grandmother was first to reach the light.
My grandfather was next to pass from sight.
As melancholy loads us with its weights,
we can’t imagine then what bliss awaits.
The sculpture made of rock can’t be a star
the way that you, my rock star sibling, are.
You cultivate your heart, soul soil field,
so love can be the crop that it will yield.
As sunlight weaves in fences, scenes are clad
in patterns, like a skirt’s, crisscrossing, plaid.
We want to stay on track with plans yet know,
beyond the one-track mind, tall feelings grow.
You beckon us, Abuelo, right hand raised,
serenely to the Love through ages praised.
Mario A. Pita