From your daughter the photographer, 

On Your Anniversary

for mom and dad

If I could capture on film

the way you two look at each other - 

after all this time.  How 

when he's just come home from work

and the night sets in, he reaches to 

the dark for you still - 

and your books are piled up on the table, 

papers and notes about kids who

chew gum and will forever despise History.

But when you reach back, 

into the dark and 

you meet his hand.  I see it.

The look that cannot erase, no matter what, 

the withered steps of a home, 

the old fire place and a tired poker, 

slouched, 

wishes of those long gone, like sea glass, 

morphed.

And sad to say it, 

a snapshot has become my main defeat.

I still cannot capture any of it.

If one day I do, 

capture the timeless reaching of hands.

When all is said and done, 

what will you have but a 

photograph.

And besides, the next night

when he walks through the door

and your eyes entangle, 

your smile retraces, 

and ignites and the stairs meet the floor

once again.

It's new each day, 

each day, different.

May I never hold in time

how there are stars, stars, 

nothing but stars blasting through 

for you both.

Maybe, I'm supposed to just let this one be, 

just once.