Snapshots
Gathered up to form,
A portrait in a frame
All of them together
Tiny pictures with no name
Through them we can see
Years and times gone by
With them we may feel
At times the urge to cry
Each one had a life then
Now they’re simply frozen
An image staring back through time
Forgotten, once was chosen
Snapshots
Stills and hazy memories,
Never in a frame
Fragments of a lifetime
Tiny pictures with no name
~ Jim Steele
~Robert Frost, A Boy’s Will, 1913
A saturated meadow,
Sun-shaped and jewel-small,
A circle scarcely wider
Than the trees around were tall;
Where winds were quite excluded,
And the air was stifling sweet
With the breath of many flowers,
A temple of the heat.
There we bowed us in the burning,
As the sun’s right worship is,
To pick where none could miss them
A thousand orchises;
For though the grass was scattered,
yet every second spear
Seemed tipped with wings of color,
That tinged the atmosphere.
We raised a simple prayer
Before we left the spot,
That in the general mowing
That place might be forgot;
Or if not all so favored,
Obtain such grace of hours,
that none should mow the grass there
While so confused with flowers.
Copyright secured by Digiprove © 2023