The Portrait On The Wall
Sometime when
I have become
A quiet portrait on the wall,
Will you, my descendant
Stop to think of me at all?
Suppose your hands are shaped like mine
You have a nutmeg sense of fun,
Will there be one to tell you so
Then, when my days are done?
If you love books and fires and songs
And slipper moons and lilac skies,
Toss me a look of shared delight
From those, my own dark eyes.
For there is kinship in a curl
And a keepsake in a spoken name,
And the wine of life may yet be poured
By hands within a frame.
Author Unknown