Box of Old Photographs

Box of Old Photographs

There is a season—(a time) before you die,
you know you are dying… a decisive eclipse
sort of….
You open up the box of old photographs,
ask, “Which ones do you want?”
Knowing time is short at best.
You don’t fuss if they take them all
they’re not sure why—!
(Because some one may have to erase them.)
Each word you say is fainter, more certain,
less laminated—;
you can now see the end, the dying sunset.

#1778 3-24-2007