Gelatin-silver, shadows fixed,
Tiny frozen snaps of time.
Old photos poorly stacked
In a box at the closet's back,
Buried in a crypt of
Mothballs and old coats.
Three generations reaching back.
Faded memories of picnics and
Birthdays and dinners and trips
And so many poses with so many
folks
With the same bewildered
Frozen smile.
I have relatives I never knew
With names I rarely heard
In family tales that only
Grandparents ever understood.
About lost family friends with
Their ancient cars who drove
Just briefly passed the camera's
Impassive lens.
Perhaps, I think, one solitary
Figure may be my
great-grandfather.
In a field somewhere, here or
there,
Since a plain is a plain,
Hungarian or Midwest.
This one fuzzy photo is
All that's left, like a ghost
On a summer's afternoon.
