That Winter


That winter after he returned from the hospital—
not driving, still not sure
of his outline in space—

I watched as he cut the rough shape from a lump
of cherry wood; then carved
with special knives

(though at five I had no idea what it meant
for my father to hold such a thing
as a knife again);

then he sanded, rubbed with linseed oil,
until we saw unmistakably
what remains:

frog born rosy and new in the heaven of
the possible, spring wound hopeful
in his hands.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Maximum of 400 words or 2000 characters.

Comments on may be used in the Forum of the print magazine and may be edited for length and clarity.