James H. Smith

THE PHOTOGRAPH

She sat in the darkened corner of the Antique shop
Overlooked as she sat watching the world pass her by

She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties
Turned slightly to the right with her head turned even more

All you could see was the left profile of her face
Wearing a dress of dark gray with flicks of lighter gray

Appearing as broken stripes in the material
Long tight sleeves went beyond her wrists to end at her hands

Hands, with long slender fingers lay in her lap on an overly full skirt
Her face not pretty, but the photographer had captured a deep beauty

A light captured in her face that took her far beyond pretty
Hair darkest of brown, deep red highlights, piled high on her head

Pretty isn’t she he said, though she’s over two hundred years old
She’s cracked and faded, the sepia pigment has turned her brown

But Sir, I see her in color, the glow of her skin the shine in her hair
I feel the laughter in her eyes, hear the tinkling bells in her voice

Then take her home Son, she’s my gift to you, she’s lived here much too long
Hmm! love at first sight I see, remember she was gone before your Grandmother was born

Little did he know as I carried her photograph lovingly from his store
I touch her face, hear the laughter in her voice within my moment of waking

Each night she comes arms open wide, so I need not spend my nights alone
Her likeness I now hold in my hands, always knowing she was real and not just a dream

Again, sometime, somewhere
In love we’ll touch