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.

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