Traces of Absence

The photograph,
Darkroom- enhanced memories,
A father in bib overalls,
A mother with flowered house dress,
Peace and poverty,
All as one,
One as all.

How voracious a picture lives,
Sympathetic to no one,
Aggressively accountable to only itself,
Alive,
And well.

This pin prick,
This 3 X 5 reminder,
Knows presence is but its dependent,
The past forever its legacy.

So…

Hold your portraits real,
Watch them grow and transcend
From their old-school developer tray,
To fixer,
To frame,
To inevitable fade.

And even though

Old photographs may lose their luster,
Their original images remain,
Archived in the heart’s scrapbook,
Free of outside modern-day erosion.

Still…

Some would argue
We have evolved into an eternal “cloud” era
Where 3D or holographic archiving will represent our mortality
Because it’s cool,
It’s in,
It’s…
Truly alive,
Some would say.

But lest we forget

Sepia-toned loved ones
Remain simple images,
And like lasting memories,
Transcend their aging.

To truly advance

Is to abide by
The beating beneath one’s chest,
Time’s quiet cadence
Remaining alive,
Endlessly promoting the journey
Beyond mere digitized love,
Protecting instead
One’s personal metronome,
Passion’s rhythmic pattern of colors,
Its traces of absence.