his eyes are fixed upon me,
envisioning the scene inside –
the darkness. the cold stale air.
her eyes sewn shut.
the subdued voices muffled
by this polished oak frame.
the winter is severe outside,
and snow covers the ground.
most of the family sits close to me
yet he stands just outside
the blue makeshift covering.
the wind wildly blows its fingers
through his white hair, stings his face,
and whispers past his perfect
handlebar mustache. but those eyes.
maybe he sees himself in here,
unwilling to step into a shelter
away from the relentless wind.
Awaiting the Images 