Box of Old Photos

By Jace Turner

This is the closest I’ll get to you, old man,
now that you’re gone—these old photos
develop new meaning.

There will be no more new memories,
even those I have continue
                                             to fade.

How vain to think I can hold on
to the afternoon musk of tobacco sweat &
labor my hands have never known.

The ice blue of your eyes aged kindly,
how your words tumbled like stones
softened with years—

now when I look at you I see
into the past but cannot return to tell you
all those things a grown son sees.

When not writing poems, Jace Turner is most likely taking long walks, reading, visiting friends, or making a mess in the kitchen. Also by this poet: "Masahide's Moon"