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