on the living room floor of the house
piles of aching photo albums
overflow with forgotten bird call
still ringing somewhere deep in caves of crowded country
crushed under the boots of a
"dominant race"
album feels heavy in my young hands
weight of humanity tearing at
lined skin
each page thick, tinged with age
aware of its immortality, the book sits and
ponders complexities of the Universe
gathering answers not fathomable
placing them in a wicker basket for
Later
as we do when picking apples on a pleasant October day,
occasionally stealing one (two) from depths of minds and tasting it,
turning it over in our mouths,
sweetness tickling tongues
faces:
haunted, blurred
staring out through a lens of time or
blank space (existent?)
how fleeting is the present
eyes reach out while mouths whisper soft words like
Return.
tear rolls down my cheek to splatter on yellowing page
not crying for the missed
only for the Now that will soon float into a wind of Past
indefinable glob of immeasurable
dancing somewhere in open space
black and white photograph
eye pleading, mouth searching.
