Selfie

Who could stare at old snapshots

Or the shadows of fruit trees

The same way after reading

Kay Ryan’s weird little poem,

Album? It’s not that the Death

In it’s allegorical,

Or her neat conceit that Death

Has its own life in photos.

It’s a poem of grief. It grieves.

But Death lives in its album

And ages into softness.

Think of fading snapshots, now.

Those could / almost be shadows

Behind the / cherry blossoms.

Death must mature to turn shade.