tribute to tim murphy
He spoke a curt Dakota tongue,
The way he wrote a poem—
Without restraint, with no embargo
But the meters that he’d loved,
And by which he’d been moved
Since he was young
And far from home.
The proud full sail that sped his Argo
Rode the Great Lakes and the Keys.
His ship was verse, its rhymes his cargo.
The Caribbean birds,
He brought down with his words
Alone. Then, always home to Fargo,
Where the geese wrote moving Vees.
As he became the stricken wraith
He ended as, he dreamt of dogs,
The Great Plains, and Key Largo,
Writing his hunter’s logs,
And claiming once again his faith.
In all his life: the love
Of verse, the depth of his devotion
To the prairie, sky, and ocean
He never tired of.
I pray the God that Tim
So loved will welcome him.