We sit as children on paper with crayons.
The timing too perfect, as soon we will learn.
Sifting through albums of family photos,
we struggle, endure; tomorrow we must fight-
for semblance of self in uncertain future.
The reflection we see tells "truth" to our eyes.
Frantic, we hope someone will see through our eyes,
see the artwork we’ve crafted with our crayons.
We fall wayward as they continue their fight.
But were we not supposed to be their future?
Onward, we find, only refusal to learn,
and they hope to be remembered in photos.
Happily we sat in booths, taking photos.
Love for each other, blooming shutter of eyes;
snapping so clearly: destiny, the future.
Making love through the pain, we began to learn:
Romance is like the colors of our crayons;
Red passion, blue tears, green envy, the black fight.
And from gray ashes, we gained strength from the fight.
Made a history of our lives through photos.
Our own child is coming. So much she will learn.
In her tiny grasp, she’ll struggle with crayons.
Let’s color a better image for her eyes;
help her discern a multicolored future.
For we have reckoned our own troubled future,
must be rife with the educational fight,
lest we forget our past: black and white crayons.
We’ve witnessed the agony, beauty through eyes,
deceived that the past is happy as photos,
as though there was nothing more for us to learn.
As for our beauty, she’s but begun to learn
that always we’ve waited for her, our future.
The love we’d not gotten, sadness in our eyes.
Thankful we are, to have learned from the photos,
to muster our strength and our love for the fight.
Imagine the hue she’ll paint with her crayons.
Remember to learn, that we must also fight.
Leave behind your photos. Look to the future.
Behind those eyes, do you remember crayons?
This is my first attempt at writing a sestina poem. This is for my wife and daughter.
