I’m reading a book of poetry
by Robert Frost,
an American master.
I can smell the dirt and
hear the rustle of trees
as I flip through the leaves.
I found the book at a library sale,
fifty cents.
On the inside cover is an inscription
scrawled in crooked adolescent script
by someone making the jump
from print to cursive,
pencil to pen.
“To Dad,
my poetic
father”
I never bought my dad
books of poetry.
Every holiday it was
fishing lures and underwear.
These gifts went a long way
on father-son fishing trips.
Lures taught me to fish and
sometimes brought dinner.
Underwear served its
obvious purpose,
but also served as
a coffee filter in desperation.
With these simple gifts,
my dad led me through
the rites of passage
into my own manhood.
I hope my turn comes
to lead a son of my own
through his adolescence.
Teaching him to risk losing a lure
for the perfect cast,
and to portage
when the river runs dry.
And I hope he gives me gifts
of fishing lures, underwear
and poetry.
One can lead a happy life
with these simple gifts.
