Black and white and blurred gray forms
Neatly contained within glossy
White crimped borders.
How many moments did she capture in 93 years?
Envelopes bulge, and albums of
Black, heavy mounting paper reveal
Only a portion.
She sits on the floor
Surrounded by stacks--
Hundreds, which she shuffles
Like cards, some kept, some discarded,
The unconscious dealing, a vain attempt
To order increasingly random, dimming thoughts
That elude capture.
And yet her heart is lucid:
A young boy, turning in surprise as the
Camera clicks, interrupting his
Run through the rain,
Slow-shuttered streaks wetting his hair.
The look -- what do you want me to do?
I'm just playing. It's raining, and I'm
In the wet grass now. Why "look this way?"
Because 60 years will go by, 70, 80 --
And the boy will still be wet, still be caught
In the split-second interruption of
Make believe and its impatient resumption,
An obedient half-turn poised in the instant
Before and after the click.
The boy is lost and yet never lost.
That one -- that memory-- must remain
In the stacks, shuffled and dealt but
Never discarded.
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