I launch the time machine by opening
this case of photographs locked against time
present and future. Even places (Newark, Paris)
frozen sepia and white 100 years removed
marveling at light and air from 2017.
It’s already getting harder to see you
in my mind. I turn to photographs.
Memory is not as visual as imagined.
Images made of bits and single words,
assembled in this moment, then passed on.
Not Vincent’s bouquets tumbling from a pitcher,
or his gardens of sword-shaped leaves and blooms
spilling off canvas, but these wife-picked flowers –
glass vase alone by the white wall,
plants I have been tending since childhood.