Every January
the acacia blooms.
That being so,
I place a photo
of one in the album,
as I contemplate
this life I document,
no trace that I have
lived it.
The same shots,
year after year,
of the cats on the couch,
my husband opening gifts,
in that sweater
his mother bought
before she quit shopping.

My daughter left
her boyfriend
because his family
asked her to
step out of the photo.
There were other
reasons, of course,
but this is the one
I always remember.
A fourth child,
I have never much
been photographed.

I sort and shape
pages and pages
of his visiting relatives,
his trips out of town.
There are no photos
of me in the album.
I start excluding
the ones I take
unless it is a
a family member.

Who should wonder
that I roam the woods
looking for faces
in the bark of the trees,
that December finds me
for the acacia
to bloom.