I see you for the first time,
In a torn Polaroid.
Your mouth curled into a smile,
And your hair tightly permed.
Sat between a fern and a stone,
I imagine you’d go there to think,
About your grandchildren or husband.
But perhaps you had none.
On rainy days would you go there?
And sit on a damp bench,
Throwing stale bread to the ducklings,
Whiling away the day.
When you felt alone would you watch the koi swim swiftly,
Or a spider expanding its web?
Would you watch the clouds float above,
And see the faces of the ones you lost?
Would you watch your photographs develop before your eyes,
And know that the moment you captured is now lost forever?
