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.