To the Man We Called Father

-- to Robert Bly


You wanted us to be your children, born and lifted
to you in golden light, heirs to your tools and words.

You wanted to bear us on your shoulders above
white dunes, carrying us further into the cold prairie.

You wanted to protect us, like a father would,
nailing on storm windows be fore winter.

But while you watched from your writing chair,
day be came night, hiding your adopted family.

Will you rise into the night to find us in the dark?
It's late, and the shutters rattle like bones.

Author's Note

I'd seen him read a couple times, and being raised a writer in the Midwest, Bly has a big shadow.