there was a river/in the black hills/that my favorite trail followed/with pine trees lining
its banks/of hard ground and towering rocks//i would beg my father/to walk that trail/
as far as it went/as many days as i could//and as we walked he would/recite poems from
memory/without ever missing a word//frost, cummings, whitman/he filled the air/and my
ears/with their words/and i soaked up/nature, rhythm, life//as the sun set/it would send
sparks of water up from the river/while my dad’s voice/deep and quiet/led us home in the
darkness//i’d like to get away from earth awhile/and then come back to it and begin over
