In my hands I hold a photograph That, for years, ...

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-

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