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Slap of the screen door, flat knock

of my grandmother’s boxy black shoes

on the wooden stoop, the hush and sweep

of her knob-kneed, cotton-aproned stride

out to the edge and then, toed in

with a furious twist and heave,

a bridge that leaps from her hot red hand:

and hangs there shining for fifty years

over the mystified chickens,

over the swaying nettles, the ragweed,

the clay slope down to the creek,

over the redwing blackbirds in the tops

of the willows, a glorious rainbow

with an empty dishpan swinging at one end.


After the funeral, the mourners gather

under the rustling churchyard maples

and talk softly, like clusters of leaves.

White shirt cuffs and collars flash in the shade:

highlights on deep green water.

They came this afternoon to say goodbye,

but now they keep saying hello and hello,

peering into each other’s faces,

slow to let go of each other’s hands.

Ted Kooser, who was born in Ames, Iowa, on April 25, 1939, was Poet Laureate of the United States from 2004 to 2006. In 2005 he was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. One of America’s most accomplished poets, he is a master of the brief, imagistic lyric which, in his hands, is characterized by precision, accessibility, and a gracious humanity. He lives near Garland, Nebraska, with his wife Kathleen Rutledge, former editor of the
Lincoln Journal Star. “Dishwater” and “Mourners” are from his collection Delights and Shadows, published by Copper Canyon Press. They are used here by permission.

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nan shartel April 29, 2011 @ 9:38 a.m.

i love these 2 poems

mostly because thru the expression of clothing and gesture more is implied then would be thru prose

poetry telling the all of it...kudos Reader for bringing these to us....



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