My father picked up flotsam
\namong the rocks,
\ndark, dank, wet.
\nCigarette packages,
\ntinfoil,
\nwood,
\nand together we sat on the stones
\nas he carved a little ship,
\nrigged it with foil sails.
\nHis knife bright as a wand of silver,
\nlight under a door,
\nthe metallic glint of a cat\u2019s eye,
\na crescent moon.<\/p>\n
I marveled at his hands,
\nhis imagination,
\nthe flash of his thoughts,
\nscraping, cutting, fastening.
\nA magician producing a dove,
\na chain of colored silk,
\nfrom the nothing of his empty hands.
\nAs if the air
\ncovered invisible objects,
\nor they were covered
\nby the invisible paper of the air.<\/p>\n
And when he completed his legerdemain,
\nhe would put his creation
\non the still surface of the water,
\nand we watched it drift
\ninto the bay,
\nperched on the swells,
\nuntil it capsized in the waves.
\nOften he gave the ships to me,
\nand like birds that cower in the hand,
\nI felt their electricity,
\nwanting them for myself.<\/p>\n
But his eyes showed me their freedom,
\nhow the water needed them.
\nHow a voyage beckoned
\nto take them from the shore,
\nand I would release them
\nbetween the stones,
\nor just beyond the edge of shelter,
\nand they would sail away,
\ntaking my father and me with them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
My father picked up flotsam among the rocks, dark, dank, wet. Cigarette packages, tinfoil, wood, and together we sat on the stones as he carved…<\/p>\n