The arrows I knew when I was eight Were made by my father from leftover flooring, Extra tongue-and-groove scantlings, dense planks Of oak and maple, and as he sawed them thin And whittled them round and smooth, I breathed in The redolence of the grains and his labor… Thus with tenderness and love does Turlock poet Gary Thomas portray his late father at work in the opening lines of “Ox […]