[Sarah]
You, girl, are the curator of a museum that began with the first cave painter,
And will end when the final hand to hold a brush falters at the dot of an eye.
We may not last, but you are not the last, girl,
So throw your voice into the sky, hurl your poem at a mountain in hope that it echos.

Never hesitate to pick up the crayons for fear they cannot capture the sunset, girl;
Capture the sunset because you know that light will never hold crayons on its own.
Sing your song because you know someone has to, and no one else will;
Even if you no longer hear the echos, it doesn't mean they've all died out.

You, girl, hold the legacy of the human race behind the twinkle of your eye
As you watch a shooting star fall through the tips of your fingers.
So speak your heart, girl, until you hold the world in the palm of your hand,
But let it go, so somewhere in the tumult someone may hear the echo of your truth.

This world you create under your running feet is hurtling past at a snail's pace
But don't try to count or count on the moments yet to come
Because someone's forgotten to put the hands on your clock, girl,
And you'll never know how many seconds you've got left.

So hand over your time by the hour, year, and decade
Buy with it all the paints and brushes you can carry
And draw yourself a life to make the sunset glow with envy
That it must cease watching you to give way to the stars.

[David]
My grandfather, a bonafide baritoned book shelf of a man,
Used to pull out his pocket watch on an afternoon and say,
“It’s high time for a story from the bad old days!”
And every kid on the block within earshot would come running.

He’d tell stories of an age gone by, stories of his youth,
When he and Sammy “Picklemouth” Wilson would get into
Trouble like you wouldn’t believe, and then ol’ Sammy
Would have to talk the both of them out of the pickle.

Grandpa, fingering his pocket watch as he conjured up the tales,
Would tell us of the time he asked three girls out on a date on the same night
Then spent the evening dashing between dinner tables with his excuses
Getting more and more outlandish as he tried to explain lengthy absences.

Grandpa would tell us, as afternoon turned to dusk, of that June 6th morning
When time both sped up and slowed down as he and his buddies
Charged across surf and sand and how he swore a bullet pinged off his chest
Right on his pocket watch, though maybe it was only a stray pebble.

I’m older, now, and I often think of my Grandfather and the
Chain that connected him to his cherished time piece. In my mind he is
Linked to time – not fettered, like a prisoner, but linked like a bee is to nectar.
He revisits each story of his life to taste the sweetness of memories cherished.