Photographs are smiles that last forever:
Snowmen that can never melt away,
Birthday celebrations caught in amber,
Rescued from the vaults of yesterday.
Faces that were once more dear than diamonds,
Boys who kept you up until the dawn,
Houses filled with bicycles and babies,
Ghosts who left their shadows on the lawn.
Photographs are holes in time’s grey curtain:
Through them we can peek into the past,
Call upon our parents and our children,
Pop a cork with members of the cast.
There they are, the days of jazz and joy-rides:
Snaps of magic moments lit by laughs;
If you ever find my house on fire
Leave the silver, save the photographs.
Fran Landesman