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*

JUNIOR

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.