The last poem I'll read is from a photograph.
I'm kind of like Steve Orlen.
I guess like my family seems to just
have photographs that go back around 300 years, I guess,
before they even invented it.
Anyway, I'm also, and this was rather startling, almost
shocking is I guess my family, great grandparents' side,
were Quakers, and then I even have
one that was a circuit rider, so that must be why I went
into teaching or something.
And this is told as if I am a mother talking to her daughter.
The photograph is actually from my great grandparents,
but that would be too confusing of great grandparents, so.
Waiting in the Stream.
Holbrook, Kansas.
In this sepia circa 1913 of seven Quaker women
in wide garden hats, tucked blouses,
and long, gray dresses, my mother in the middle
tilts her head to the right, smiles straight
into the camera.
My father on the bank tries not to drop the plate nor stare
at my mother's ankles.
After the picture, he knows she'll
keep her dress pulled up, giggle, glance down
into the water, her dress and white blouse
rippling in the stream.
She'll think how shy he is with his tie crooked,
his pants too small.
He'll look at her red hair and, oh, those ankles, then
remember how they met in church, her head tilted,
looking away from her father, a minister, the sunlight kissing
the awkward bench where she sat.
How he wanted to be near her, touch the rough wood,
and sing a river of silent hymns.
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]
The next poet is Greg Pape.