by Frank Wylie

Created on: November 16, 2009

A collection of photos strewn across the cold tile floor

Like a handful of sweet memories sinking into the Atlantic

Some glimpse of the glorious tragedy that binds us to our past

Which pathway through the cold New England woods have I taken?

Photographs falling behind me on this path show my every step

The wind begins to blow harder, with the bare canopies of ancient oaks whining and creaking above

I button my coat and snap the wool collar to keep the wind from my face

There I was at home in the warmth of disconnection

Now here today I see my past in the cold photographs

They show only what I long to savor and think to sacrifice

The last photo that fell behind me was of the cold tile floor

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