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January
January
Sitting on the sofa,
Weak, watery January sun
Seeps through the window
behind you, onto the nubbly sweater
covering your fragile bones,
a photo album on your knee.
Pages of memories
released, mind devouring
happier times
before the pain came.
You raise a fistful of Kodachrome
in your gaunt, veined hands,
against the odds you will not
see the snow melt into spring.
Do you feel forlorn? Angry? Fulfilled?
The question, not mine to ask,
lies unspoken between us,
floating among the dust motes
of turned pages and sorrow.
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Paula Banks