Poetry- 3rd Place

I see my father at 19, a young man
I never knew, yet there he is
with my brother’s nose
and a granddaughter’s strong eye brows,
the Brownie Box capturing
the mystery of heritage

He stands in front of a worker’s cabin,
his shadow stretching out behind him,
across the planked wood floor
up the slats
to a small window
that overlooks the orchard I know is there

The lens shows only tree tops but
I remember his stories of long days
on shaky ladders leaning into trees
laden with ripe cherries, arms stretching long
to fill metal pails, hands and mouths
sticky with the sweetness of stolen treasure

He told stories of the rowdy fun of young
workers, city boys ready for adventure,
of sunburned backs and cooling plunges
into the bay, cherry pies for dinner,
strange floating lights bright in the northern sky,

and everywhere, the smell of cedar

Judge’s Comments:

“I enjoyed the surprise of this poem’s ending, the rise to the sensual after a long listing of historical details and memory. An intelligent and interesting poem.”

My name is Kathleen Hayes Phillips. This submission comes from an apartment in Milwaukee, one block from Lake Michigan, where I live and write. After years of living in the country, I now find my muse in the energy of the city.