One last memo from Elkhart.... a very old (& now a little revised) "shape poem"
ARROWHEAD
A
Maze of lakes in northern Minnesota,
Crisp air adrift on owl's wings
Between the wide gray skies
And fanfare of muted pines;
Waves lapping, lapping
Against the riding prow
Of the motorboat, my dad
At the tiller, looking
Out toward shore, quiet,
His beard grown rough now
After a weekend in the woods –
I'm afraid to dive too deep
Into the scales of the past,
My callow bones, the large
Boy head full of springing
Illusions, upstart to replace
A sense of imperfection
With voracious all-devouring
Enveloping thought – fishline,
This daily bait of blind birdsong.
Before you, Iron Range long gone, I
Will always be that unbound, reedy son.
