Boxes

Late in summer’s months, pawing through boxes

for something, I can’t remember what, now,

something buried deep and inaccessible,

and I spill out some old pictures, old photos come loose

from the pages of an album over the years

packed and repacked away, the glue

dried and flaking, letting go the hold

on little 3 x 5 images, grainy and faded,

years old, agéd years since I captured those faces

squinting into the sun over my shoulder,

children the ages, size, and shape of their own children,

“the spitting image” perhaps only a grandparent can see,

holding them up and squinting myself, bi-focaled,

peering over the tops of my glasses, or down my nose,

remembering the date and place, the occasion captured

years ago, a Kodak moment, left to fade, occasions slipping

into memory in the letting go, losing my hold on them,

letting them grow, memories buried deep and inaccessible,

late in summer’s months, pawing through boxes looking for them.