The Picture Frame
It stood alone upon the shelf
above the hearth, warmed by flame.
I'd gazed too many times to count
at those two inside the picture frame
Cut square from weathered wood of barn,
with rifts from age and gathered dust
that 1940's bride and groom
did send my mind to wanderlust.
She in white gossamer gown
with a bashful smile upon her face,
and he so proud in uniform
that flash in time could not erase.
Did they lie in stained-glass fields
stitched with verdant clover sweet?
Did they leave impressions there
their outlined forms pressed so deep?
Did they gaze up at crisp, bright stars,
sipping on strawberry wine-
on a swath of road at the fringe of town
with fingers laced, so firm entwined?
Was it a glimpse, or flourished span?
Did they meet by chartered fate?
Was that rose pinned in her hair
plucked outside his garden gate?
Did they attend gay affairs, and
stroll down a secret clandestine path?
Did they waltz to special songs,
listened to on photograph?
As I study now, deep in thought
these questions do not worry me,
for without those tow upon the shelf
my existence would never be.
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