68 of 100

by Linda Armstrong

The bird
of time,
shot
by the snap
of an old
camera,
lies stunned,
fastened down
in this
scrapbook.

All the smiles
remain fixed,
aged as cheese,
the living
and dead
equally still.

Some faces,
like unlabeled
graves, remain
anonymous.
The last links
of memory have
been severed,
and all that
remains is a familiar
nose, ear, or hand.

In some parts
of the world,
people believe
that a snapshot
is a real shot;
a small death
because life
cannot be extracted
from time
without cost.

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Poetry: Snapshots

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Poetry: Snapshots

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Poetry: Snapshots

by Linda Armstrong

Poetry: Snapshots

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