I saw him read one summer in Fairbanks,

the patter between poems itself a poem

because he was like that, fully at home

with words. That lit June night he offered thanks

for some gladness or other, and laid planks

of language that formed a lucky bridge from

one thought to the next. What might seem to some

a plainness too simple for poetry--drank

of poetry when he spoke. I reflected

for years on his writing, could hear him chime,

sly and instructive, as I connected

with my work. The voice said to make time

each morning, to begin early on task,

to learn from failures, to ask and to ask.

Originally published in Chariton Review