Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. A wise and loving father fishing with his two sons.
Norman Maclean wrote about a time like that in his book “A River Runs Through It,” and here's a poem by Todd Davis that catches much the same feeling in far fewer words.
That's not to denigrate Maclean but to point out that there are many ways for us to write about our lives.
The poet lives in Pennsylvania and this poem is from his book “Native Species,” published by Michigan State University Press.
Thankful for Now
Walking the river back home at the end of May, locust in bloom, an oriole flitting through dusky crowns, and the early night sky going peach, day's late glow the color of that fruit's flesh, dribbling down over everything, christening my sons, the two of them walking before me after a day of fishing, one of them placing a hand on the other's shoulder, pointing toward a planet that's just appeared, or the swift movement of that yellow and black bird disappearing into the growing dark, and now the light, pink as a crabapple's flower, and my legs tired from wading the higher water, and the rocks that keep turning over, nearly spilling me into the river, but still thankful for now when I have enough strength to stay a few yards behind them, loving this time of day that shows me the breadth of their backs, their lean, strong legs striding, how we all go on in this cold water, heading home to the sound of the last few trout splashing, as mayflies float through the shadowed riffles.
Ted Kooser. Photo credit: UNL Publications and Photography. A wise and loving father fishing with his two sons.
Norman Maclean wrote about a time like that in his book “A River Runs Through It,” and here's a poem by Todd Davis that catches much the same feeling in far fewer words.
That's not to denigrate Maclean but to point out that there are many ways for us to write about our lives.
The poet lives in Pennsylvania and this poem is from his book “Native Species,” published by Michigan State University Press.
Thankful for Now
Walking the river back home at the end of May, locust in bloom, an oriole flitting through dusky crowns, and the early night sky going peach, day's late glow the color of that fruit's flesh, dribbling down over everything, christening my sons, the two of them walking before me after a day of fishing, one of them placing a hand on the other's shoulder, pointing toward a planet that's just appeared, or the swift movement of that yellow and black bird disappearing into the growing dark, and now the light, pink as a crabapple's flower, and my legs tired from wading the higher water, and the rocks that keep turning over, nearly spilling me into the river, but still thankful for now when I have enough strength to stay a few yards behind them, loving this time of day that shows me the breadth of their backs, their lean, strong legs striding, how we all go on in this cold water, heading home to the sound of the last few trout splashing, as mayflies float through the shadowed riffles.