Sifting through the splintered beams,
the splattered glass of picture frames,
muddy pillows, rails and clothes,
she spots the album's edge, extracts
a history as carefully
trembling hands allow today,
inspects her photos with relief:
those art museums in Madrid,
her gourmet nights in Tuscany,
Vienna quintet, awkward waltz,
slow carriages beside the lake,
lanterns floating, tea rooms, hats,
that shoe shop with the perfect flats,
bread stands, and that chocolatier,
cobblestones and Yellowstone.
Remembrance pulls her from the crush.
An earthquake took away her home,
yet she would always tend to roam.
Soon enough she would rebuild.
Itineraries unfulfilled
summon her to think anew:
"Fresh memories will see me through."