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And So It Returned
And so it returned,
like a stain, pushing through a lost wall,
the memory of a photograph.
I hold it here, the broken moth within the box,
dead and discovered in the sun-spattered hall,
and so it returned.
I am there, in the trees, feeling her soft locks,
the crisp to my right, then the call,
the memory of a photograph.
Frozen, tiny white child socks,
in the past, a door in a well hid wall,
and so it returned,
to here, this rust image unlocks,
the dust smells, my eyes at the fall,
the memory of a photograph,
as she tumbles, in spirals, her soft locks
dazzle then die, and I lost it all.
And so it returned.
The memory of a photograph.
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