The forgotten box I found them in
Smells of dust and “olden times.”
The styles they wore are strange.
But I handle each photo carefully,
Touching only the edges,
At each piece of the past.
The faces seem to be so still,
Gazing steadily through the photo finish.
But I feel as though it’s one-way glass
As I try to reach beyond the picture
And penetrate the years.
I silently wonder,
Are we really so far apart?
And the faces smile,
Content at my wondering.