A photo sepiatoned stirs in the dust

A photo, sepia-toned, stirs in the dust,

a garden alive with laughter, where we used to trust.

Grandma’s hands cradle blooms, petals open wide,

yet I chase just a shadow, where memories hide.

Sun-bleached and curled, the paper’s whispers fall,

touching the heart like echoes, the past’s silent call.

Where blooms once danced, now shadows lie still,

yet I remember the warmth, the quiet thrill.

Those days dimly flicker, like fireflies in flight,

remnants of sunlight that fade with the night.