A photo carried many miles,
Warmed by one of your quiet smiles.
Its soiled surface wrinkled with age,
Like a favorite book on the very first page.
On stormy seas and fevered shores,
The picture seen in my hands was yours.
Comforting on days both long and hard,
This tracing etched on a paper card.
Sitting with me at a lonely meal.
A presence there to always feel.
Placed in front on Christmas Day.
Often in lands far away.
So many times brought to view,
Wishing instead that it was you.
Still, all that’s left for me to see.
A picture still of you, not we.

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