Photograph

 

By the shore of a secluded lake he sits.
An old photograph rests in his hand,
but the image is etched deeply
in memory far more vivid and alive
than the faded paper he holds.

He returns the picture to its place
among other treasured mementos -
a golden ring, polished and glistening;
petals from a flower long-since-wilted;
love letters she once wrote.

He cherishes these simple treasures
and carries them where ever he goes.

He counts, again, all the aimless hours -
eight tedious years, six long months
and twenty-three lonely days -
since the last time he saw her.

Around him morning rises, quiet and calm.
He tries to collect his thoughts
and looks skyward, searching the horizon,
trying to determine which way to go,

but his thoughts are all unfocused
except for that tattered photograph,
and he wonders where she has gone
and if he will ever see her again.

He decides one direction
is as good as any another,
so he stands,
turns toward the rising sun
and walks away