The Carpenter’s Daughter

. . . watched her father
wield the saw,
sand the wood.
She’d crouch close
as planks were split,
press nose to teak,
tweak pine’s knots,
bold against splinters!
Down canted stairs
she’d run
to where a wild dust
fogged the air
and wires wormed
and boards
were everywhere.
God of that untidy
underworld,
wizard of tools,
how I loved
to watch you work!
Your wide hands:
so precise.
Your concentrating eyes:
so piercing-clear.
"See: a delicate mechanism,"
you’d say,
lifting up a drill
or gear or blade,
admiring
some new infatuation.
In deference
to its elegance,
you stayed sober
as if escorting
a fine woman.
In deference
to your reverence,
at your side
I stayed as quiet
as the wood.