Pieces of paper that hold a link to the past.
The edges are curled; they won’t lay flat.
In shades of grey and black they are bound to the page.
Eyes that no longer see, from a long ago age.
My history, I’m told, in the faces of that time.
The images are cold; frozen in time.
These strangers we cling to, a link to the past.
We long to connect; a link to be grasped.
We close the album pages; trusting again
We’re leaving a link, for our family & friends.
Copyright © 2017 Penny Wilson
The Reluctant Poet 