I watched Mom, after the fire, crying, crying <br />The fire had destroyed our old Victorian home <br />A house that held treasures and many memories <br />I still see the old attic, where I played with dolls <br /> <br />The house stood, in the night, just a shell, gone <br />In a circle of neighbors, tears were long shed <br />My Mom sent a pray to God, for saving our lives <br />I still see my old room, pretty pictures on the wall <br /> <br />The days that past were long, waiting, waiting <br />We stayed with Grannie, in her very old house <br />In the attic, I made my new nest of imagination <br />I still see the dust and the cobwebs, the oval window <br /> <br />Days later, Mom sat on the floor, surrounded <br />With photographs, all tattered, burned and burned <br />I came beside her and picked one up, looking <br />It was my sister at Christmas(she died at six) <br /> <br />I looked at Mom, as tears fell, falling, falling <br />Don't cry Mommy, we will fix them up, you'll see <br />Into the kitchen we went, for Grannie's big scissors <br />Me and Mom started to cut, we cut to keep memories <br /> <br />Many photographs, of our ancestors, destroyed <br />Water soaked and burned beyond any hope of repair <br />But some were just burned at bit, and there was hope <br />We cut away at the photographs, hoping for a face <br /> <br />Today, I am looking at old photographs, tattered <br />I keep them in a special box, that I visit sometimes <br />They have odd shapes and some have burn marks <br />I go to the photographs, when my soul needs repair<br /><br />A Rambling Poet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/old-photographs-3/
