Baisley Pond, 2009
 

Father as the miracle. Father as the present
disciple. Father who kneeled at the edge

of every pond before testing his step.
My vocation was of dare, to be inside

the pond I broke through that winter.
My hands, drenched and blue as Gulliver

trout. What I could feel, grasping at strands
of him as I found them. River furrows

sheathing what he’d never seen, the season
still too early. After that, we could never tell

which surfaces were safest to touch, which might
fill our boots with a thrill so numbing

we could never unlearn it.