Gifts

About the Author

On Tuesday, his day off, my father

would often rearrange the order of his room:

bed and t.v. set, chairs, desk, lamps.

I'd see his lively hands and not the fatigue

of work. Before he was through, air and light

shifted, as he sang inside the rhythms

of his world.

He took everything out of the closet

to examine old menus and receipts, then

labeled shoe boxes according to content and year.

Anything that didn't have a place

in the remade space was thrown away.

A meticulous man, my father, I'd watch him

arrange his dresser like a musical score

and put on his gold watch, diamond ring and key chain

as if he were going to the opera and not back

to a greasy kitchen.

Had he seen me peeking through the crack

of his door, I would not have known then

he was giving something to his daughter,

a golden light, a lighter air.

Had he followed me down through the years

he would have seen me here among vcr's, computers,

gifts, sifting through accumulated stuff.

He would see how I move space around,

arrange books and pens, rename files so carefully

that each drawer and dark corner

takes a lightness of being.

I keep jewelry in a music box, except for this

precious piece, this aria of sun and shadows:

When I am overwhelmed with work,

I look at my room and change twenty things.

from The Lucid Stone, Winter 1998