I drafted a couple of poems in response to an actual old photograph on the shelf, but then this popped to mind while I was killing time in a coffee shop. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be too literal.
Lost and found
He doesn’t recall her
face, even in dreams. Their son brings him
old photographs, but he recognizes
no one, himself least of all.
What he remembers is burying
his face in her hair, the scent
and fall of it, the way his fingers
tangled in the curls.