On Finding an Old Photograph

Yalding, 1912. My father

in an apple orchard, sunlight

patching his stylish bags;

three women dressed in soft,

white blouses, skirts that brush the grass;

a child with curly hair.

If they were strangers

it would calm me – half-drugged

by the atmosphere – but it does more –

eases a burden

made of all his sadness

and the things I didn’t give him.

There he is, happy, and I am unborn.