the box of photos

there is less
to do
on a rainy day.
or so you think
as you lower
windows
and let the dog
in. there are
books to read,
poems to write,
rewrite,
and abandon.
somewhere your
mother lingers
by a phone
stirring a pot
awaiting what
you have to add
to it.
there are clothes
to fold
and carry up
the stairs,
then there is
the box you
trip upon, full
of old photos,
dusty,
when they were
on squares
of paper,
held in hand.