My grandmother’s silver is nothing like the sun
Out of the corner of my eye, silver flashes.
I planted a pinwheel in my living room.
I hate saying twinkle. Or sparkle. Or shine.
I glance over my shoulder and see it vibrate as both the breeze and its mother plant touch it.
Almost caress it. It gleams like my grandmother’s silver, when she showed it to me that one time before she sold it.
It’s glinting at me, like that good silver did. It’s winking at me, like my husband did. Does. Is doing.
Will always do. He will wink at me until forever ends.