The Picture Frame

It stood alone upon the shelf above the hearth, warmed by flame. I'd gazed too many times to count at those two inside the picture frame Cut square from weathered wood of barn, with rifts from age and gathered dust that 1940's bride and groom did send my mind to wanderlust. She in white gossamer gown with a bashful smile upon her face, and he so proud in uniform that flash in time could not erase. Did they lie in stained-glass fields stitched with verdant clover sweet? Did they leave impressions there their outlined forms pressed so deep? Did they gaze up at crisp, bright stars, sipping on strawberry wine- on a swath of road at the fringe of town with fingers laced, so firm entwined? Was it a glimpse, or flourished span? Did they meet by chartered fate? Was that rose pinned in her hair plucked outside his garden gate? Did they attend gay affairs, and stroll down a secret clandestine path? Did they waltz to special songs, listened to on photograph? As I study now, deep in thought these questions do not worry me, for without those tow upon the shelf my existence would never be.