Die Maker’s Son

                                I want you to be sharp

                                and pay attention to little things—

                                williwaws, footprints, candle scents,

                                not a pointed awl gone mad

                                that pokes holes in everything.

                                Find a subtle breeze at the point

                                of the lake where it curls back

                                and sniffs at your bare knees

                                as you stand there in the water, listening.

                                Be the leaves that turn to gold then fall

                                into a blaze at their own slow pace.

                                I want you to be the perfect plane

                                that waits in a wooden box

                                for the right time to emerge,

                                then fits comfortably in the hand

                                to smooth back the stubborn door

                                that sticks from summer 

                                swelling. Be sure to leave

                                ample shavings on the ground

                                so we know you have been there.

                                Step carefully over your work.

                                Break words that need to break.

                                Learn to appreciate the gloss

                                on waves that toil to the shore

                                when they decide the time

                                has come for them to shine.