And this will be my last poem.
This is a poem that's so new, the title
is handwritten thus far.
So at the moment, it's called Cold Pastoral,
after On A Grecian Urn, by Keats.
We'll see how long that lasts.
Cold Pastoral.
"That our farm killed my father is undeniable.
I am convinced it killed his brother as well, whose job it
was to handle the Roundup.
He died of brain cancer.
What am I to do about this?
To sell the land would be revenge.
But if I'm honest, I'd rather sell my right eye.
I take my girls to the farm on holidays.
They search barns for discarded objects,
treasures, an ancient telephone, floating minnow bucket,
KG Luneville Badonviller teacup found on the dirt floor
of the pigsty.
There is a story there, but no one left to tell it.
The adults of my childhood spoke quietly above me,
always worried about all of our lives,
even though we owned the land as far as the eye could see."
Thank you, everyone.
[APPLAUSE]