The Pictures

The Pictures

As the cool winter evening approaches

A nephew's portrait arrives in the mail

Joining the other pictures idling on the wall,

Mirrored windows revealing

The souls of loved ones.

 

Babies caught in early moments of sheer vulnerability,

Faces unencumbered by dissatisfaction and disappointment,

Eyes pure centers of formidable creation,

Bodies wiggling and rhyming with invisible tunes.

My atrophied heart stirs in front of the pictures.

 

I try to move away but eyes follow

Like the stars above on watch.

I breathe intuitively, flow invisibly

Like a shadow, like a premature ghost.

Yet the faces in the pictures still glow.

 

The scepter of suicide lures

Even life's most faithful,

Just a dream, a dark misguided fantasy,

Or a reliable time-out for the restless.

The pictures act as heavy paddles

Slamming down across the sorrow

Like bright sunshine in the early morning.

 

Everything is memorized in the pictures

Igniting feelings and associations

Inside my head, inside my heart.

I move closer to the pictures

Knowing that they are my earth,

As solid and dependable as the weather.