these old photos
cover my walls
the grins, the groans, the moans

living whispers
tickling my iris
like the wind of fall

the images ache at times
this one is gone
another lost
somewhere in the wilderness
of the infinite

in times of solitude
they are the warmest blanket
the sort of thing that
wraps the body up
in a cacoon of silk

if something else arrives
next spring
there will be
neatly hung
reminders