An Old Photo

I pulled it out of the frame
a hard swift yank
to remove this old photo of my mother
as a black and white era hippie
from its antique frame,
seeking a photo for
her funeral display.
Not all of it came out.
In my hand I held a photo, ruined
by my indiscrete act
ruined until I took a second
look. Through the knothole of
my too hurried act
I suddenly saw my mother as she was
real and live before me, dancing like
a fairy in the small of my hand.
I remembered the small wrinkled
form in the dark box. The face so
different from the one in the picture,
the face so different from the one that
smiled at me from my hand.
This photo would not go into the display
I put it in a drawer but treasured
the image that had appeared in my hand.
My mother, as she truly was.