In the photo, eight Belgians have harrowed the field
smooth as a calm lake.  Great-grandfather, still young,
guides the team, riding a gray behind them.

In the next one, Wilfred, my grandfather, age 12,
who died from a sad marriage,
long before the valve gave out on his heart,
stands on top of a mare’s back
like an acrobat in the circus.

The last picture has faded brown.
Near supper time, they are on the front porch
of a rundown homesteader’s shack,
while their two story farmhouse
is being built next door.
Clement and Sadie are both holding cats,
while Wilfred sits beside them
with his arms around a border collie
named Shortie.

Even though their faces are not clear,
it is easy to tell from their body language
that they are happy to be a family,
even though they don’t know
that two World Wars and The Great Depression
will occur, or at 91, Clement will be walking with me,
a great-grandson, and he will smile,
smelling the freshly plowed earth.
  

This poem first appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review.
Used here with the author’s permission.