One instance when a picture prompts a poem. Doesn’t usually do it for me. And more reflections on the cruel, inexorable nature of time. This little guy is now 27 years old! *sigh*
In the receding gloam
I ponder a stratum of blue
within the photograph of my son,
hone in on his baby blue peepers,
cobalt against a periwinkle blanket.
His radiant bare head emerges
from beneath a navy cap.
Bundled in a fleece jacket,
wrapped within a sheepskin throw,
pensive, his immense hands grip nothing
He’d quit bawling by then
and we pleasantly romped in the park.