I watched my father absorbed in his work,
Bringing the dead wood back to life.
I handed him tools as he called for them:
Straight edges, hammers, drills, saws.
There wasn't much to say,
This was the work of hands
That could find their own way in the dark,
Feel the run of grain in unplaned boards,
Draw a saw blade like a violin bow,
Drill an eye through a solid piece of wood.

He could tell you pine from oak, redwood from cherry;
Make chairs to sit on, tables, bureaus,
Dove tailed drawers fitting together beautifully,
Smooth sanded finishes gleaming like mirrors.

He stood there, working, waiting for me to follow him,
To pick up those tools and learn their rough language,
Their magic of wordless construction.

But no matter how long I watched,
I never got it.

But in watching and listening, much more at home,
Caught up in the rhythms of hand and arm,
I dreamed of making things of my own,
Things that would catch my father's eye,
Fill the space that ballooned between us.

Years later, now, I compare my poetry with his.
Though silent, the wooden things work, serving their purpose.
Unable to support you, hold clothes, or bar doorways,
The written words can speak.