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