Photograph and Memory
In my hands I hold a photograph
That, for years, I hadn't seen-
It's the only one I've left now
from when we were seventeen.
You head cocked slightly to the right,
You strike a playful pose.
Your blue eyes fairly sparkle
above a button nose.
Your skin is fair and freckled
No makeup, none required.
Peasant blouse and chinos
are your casual attire.
Here too, is the letter that you wrote
The week my father died-
Some years had passed since seventeen-
You were no longer by my side.
You said he'd taught me how to love-
a consequential gift.
I'd had such a good teacher
That, in me, his spirit lived.
The ink is faint and faded-
the fault of light and time.
Or is it tears and fading vision
that makes it hard to read this time?
It's strange the things a man retains
as time starts to expire.
The memory of your kisses
in some neuron's random fire.
As this world counts beauty
You'd rank pretty, I suppose
But if I was the little prince
I'd choose you for my rose.
poem by John F. McCullagh
Added by Poetry Lover
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