Isn't She

Softly worn, cracked it fell from his wallet.
Isn't she beautiful? he muttered ...
your mother, isn't she beautiful?

Brush stroked cream and flawless,
her skin, in spite of the photo's tattered age.

My mother's hands, recreated on my being,
cradle the photo of a young woman stilled in a flash.
Shadows unable to settle over the years;
they wouldn't dare hinder the too-large smile and bastion laugh.
My eyes like hers, Mona Lisa caramel,
filled with light and a mischievous inflection ...
Yes, she is beautiful.

Seasons see all, weather all, forgive none.
An albatross anchored in the mind.
Yet time failed to whisper her name;
a figurine frozen in pose.

Isn't she beautiful? he muttered ...
your mother, isn't she beautiful? ...
Yes, dad, she's beautiful ... still.