THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH

That box under the bed
Collecting years and dust.
Not sure why
I haven't trashed it.

A wet Sunday in November
Threatens snow
So I pull out the collection
And begin the chore.

Then it happens
The last remaining photograph of you
Slips from between postcards.
And your young face catches my breath.

An afternoon I remember
In the park—it was spring.
A rare moment—you were happy.
So was I if I recall.

Everything was new
We were just kids
So in love
Or so we thought.

Much too serious
Foolish fools
However; we knew everything then
Didn't we?

I smile and then return
The artefact to its place.
Where you will lie in wait
For my next nostalgic moment.



 

 

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Your comments are much appreciated—thanks, WRP.