She was eighteen and would have started college
or slung her camera on her shoulder, her beret
on her head and traveled the world, smiling in
that bright white flash she had
He was nineteen and would have finished college or
walked from his parents' home and business, rolled canvas
under his arm, paints and black tee shirts in his duffle
he'd smoke in the perfect light of Paris or Tuscanny
scented with turpentine
She would pause one day in the darkroom
and he stop midstroke and smile in fleeting thought
of each other and the innocents they had been
before they journeyed, afar, alone, abroad
their passion ignited and alive in their work
Not their child
No comments:
Post a Comment