In her poem Beasts, Kay Ryan eloquently writes of a fascination for old, rusted, sepia-toned photographs and lost objects. Not everyone enjoys facing their "rainbow beasts," but for me, I can't get enough of the past. A past not even my own is one worth reflecting on. There is so much the imagination can spill upon a found image but only hope to wonder who, where, why it was created.
Time lingers
quietly in attics.
Romantics are
always fingering
some discolored
fabric or other,
feeling a deep
nostalgia for sepia,
a mellow sadness
at what keeps
but yellows.
But other people
don’t trust ambering
or court the filigrees
of rust. They’ve
seen lost greens
of memory ignite,
dead dogs released,
and don’t invite
the rainbow beasts.
(Photo above was found here.)
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