I have a picture of you.
It's supposed to be black and white,
but it's overexposed and faded,
so it's harvest gold and white.
You're standing in Kansas cornfield
your back as straight as the stalks
the wisdom visible in your weathered face.
I'd like to have known you,
to have sat on your knee
and listened to your stories
as folky as a Dylan song,
but I've heard them from your daughter,
your little tadpole,
and they live through my words,
for men don't die with their bodies,
and I hope we meet in the afterlife
like we do in my dreams.