The Sour Years
	---------------

	This photograph's so old the edges tear
	and split.  Who is the man who stands behind
	Aunt Jane?  Is he the beau who died?  Remind
	me, I forget these histories.  Jane's hair
	was black with youth; a smile still curled her lips
	back then, but sour years have bleached her pale.
	Was he the one who'd drowned?  A roaring gale,
	I've heard in tales, had sunk a dozen ships
	that year, had wasted sailors' youth to feed
	a greedy sea.  I still do not recall
	his name, if he was charming or was tall.
	That fall, she withered like a frost-burned weed,
	her sterile seeds all scattered and gone stale. 
	Poor Jane, the sour years have bleached her pale.