Fisherman

Fisherman

Some old photographs
from among the black and whites
the aunts would share
on summer evenings
when the mosquitoes drove us in,
taking them one by one
with gnarled hands
from the oaken box:
this is Ida in the garden;
and here our neighbors down the road;
one of Quinney School,
the teacher's hair a crown of braids;
the hill in winter where a horse
pulls up a sleigh;
the cat with one eye
that slept under the house.
And this is your grandfather
on the shore of Lake Winnebago,
asking his catch
what the water says to him.