4.12.2004

Today my father turns 77. Happy b-day, Dad. Here's an old (& I guess rather dated) poem from Way Stations. Meant to be vaguely a "shape" poem (shape of Minnesota).


         ARROWHEAD




A
Maze of lakes in northern Minnesota,
Crisp air adrift on owl's wings
Between the wide gray skies
And a long swath of muted pines,
Waves lapping, lapping
Against the riding prow
Of the motorboat, my father
At the tiller, smiling, looking
Out toward the shore, quiet,
His beard growing rough now
After a day or two in the woods –


I'm afraid of diving too deep
Back into the skin of the past,
My callow bones, the large
Boy head full of springing
Phantasms, upstart to replace
A sense of imperfection
With voracious all-devouring
Enveloping thought – fishline,
This daily bread of blind birdsong.
Before you, Iron Range long gone, I
Will always be that unbound, reedy son.

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