Hours, days, years
Pass nimbly by
Pitter-patters become footsteps
That run away.
To begin a new life
The past rusts, parts are lost or missing
We struggle to buff and repair
To keep the pieces together
Dust collects on holidays,birthdays, and vacations
Confined to boxes, scrapbooks, and attics
Yellowing as years pass.
hang in wooden frames.
Staring, haunting, ghostly images of the past.