Old Photo Albums Ii Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

Fingers touching photo albums,
Hands are gnarled, where veins unfold.
Eyes still shiny, though much paler,
Scan those fragments, now grown old.

Cardboard jewels, sun dried petals,
Fading lace, quaint fashioned hearts,
Youthful maidens with hydrangeas
Stand in pristine, flowered yards.

Little babies, tiny rosebuds,
Plucked by ravaging disease,
Smile from yesterday's brown pallor,
Held on stern maternal knees.

Brittle folded silver paper
No one crushed or tossed away,
Pasted near a stiffened portrait,
Of a child who never played.

Now a cloverleaf has fallen,
Slipped from slender, bony knees.
Having lost one of its petals
In the thirsty carpet's seams.

There a yellowed sheaf is lying,
Labeled 'fragile, do not fold.'
Childlike scribbles from a schoolhouse,
Though the child is now grown old

Thick the album, quite old-fashioned,
Soon the feed for worms and rot.
All those families and faces,
Fleeting as forget-me-nots.

Starched and shiny stands a young man,
Medals pinned upon his chest,
Innocent with hope his aspect,
Presently was laid to rest.

Thick veined hands now placet the book down
On a kitchen windowsill.
Sad and sleepless eyes try resting
On a cat that's napping still.

Long ago these hands washed children,
Poured fresh water from the well.
Dark brown soap was made of suet.
Ancient ways. No one to tell.

It's too late to fix a teacup,
Age has stolen strength and will,
Though the dreaming has grown stronger.
Cups of gold an angel fills.

Heavy hands now fold in prayer,
Waiting, though it be a while,
For that silent door to open,
Where a son or daughter smiles.

Fingers touching photo albums,
Hands are gnrled, where veins unfold.
Eyes still shiny, though much paler,
Scan those fragments, now grown old.