Waist-high in golden alfalfa, still in
Sunday clothes, mother and dad peaceably
move up a generation. His wife lightly
shifts the baby and smiles at her in-laws,
a real smile, not the type she’ll flash in
future photographs. Now, baby’s silky
head and the straight stalks glow in the sunny
day. Through the camera he is peering
at what he has captured. Mountains sit
in the background raising a nameless brown.
This is his post-war dream, we’ll all of us
work this ranch. There was no money in it.
And the seeds that flourished in that dry ground
were those of their mutual animus.
Emily Updegraff lives near Chicago. She studied biology for the first decade of her adulthood. In her second and third she is working, mothering, and reading widely. She is just beginning to find ways to share her poems and this is her first online poetry publication.