(Camping with my grandson:
An archery lesson)

After a bout of your impatience
we snuggle down in the tent
and I say
anger is like a bow with one arrow,
let it go and listen to the whiz
of its force. The point of its power
can race into the sky
and, bent by its own gravity,
and pierce your heart with anguish

Before any crack of dawn
I awaken you from a fitful dream
to watch the sky’s great hunter 
go to bed. In a scuffled voice
you tell me about your sleeping self:
I was in the woods
and there was William Tell
staggering around and hollering
at me to stand in front of the big oak.
I pressed my face against its bark
then turned and when I saw
the feather fly,
I saw that William Tell was me