The dirt of dusty decades
Lies upon the lath
Beneath a piece of plaster
I found a photograph
They smiled from the centuries;
Those mysterious three
Sent the musty memories
A message meant for me
Sara’s grave is gone, I guess
So long since laid low,
Yet, despite her ancient death
She smiles and waves ‘hello’
I cannot tell Annie’s age,
The words do not say
The owner wrote only names
Her face has frayed away
The baby in the buggy
Lifts a lively hand
She sits between her sisters
Beside the shining sand
This will be the only piece
From the dust so brown
That preserves their memory
Once we tear this house down
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC
The dirt of dusty decades
Lies upon the lath
Beneath a piece of plaster
I found a photograph
They smiled from the centuries;
Those mysterious three
Sent the musty memories
A message meant for me
Sara’s grave is gone, I guess
So long since laid low,
Yet, despite her ancient death
She smiles and waves ‘hello’
I cannot tell Annie’s age,
The words do not say
The owner wrote only names
Her face has frayed away
The baby in the buggy
Lifts a lively hand
She sits between her sisters
Beside the shining sand
This will be the only piece
From the dust so brown
That preserves their memory
Once we tear this house down
The story of an old daguerreotype I found inside a wall. The house was being demolished.
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