The old pictures,
borders coiled like dried autumn blades,
give only glances.
A youthful laugh, unheard now,
a sun long set on that certain day.
I try to piece it together,
the scent of the salt air then,
the weight of a hand in mine.
But the details drop,
like sand through open fingers.
There are times, sharp and sudden,
a song on the radio, a...
Continue reading...