We are all wearing white
in the photograph
taken months ago.
Everyone is there.
How could all the years fit
in a few frames by the table?
What could contain
all the days and nights
of holding your hand,
of hearing your laughter,
warm and loud,
from the kitchen?
I couldn't pack this all away
in a box.
And yet that box is waiting.
Maybe it will not hurt
so much then.
But not now,
not now,
when I can still see your
soft, gray slippers
by the bed.
Painting by Marc Whitney (as posted on Sprayblog.net).
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