April 3 sestina

A Sapling Song

My father's hands are rough like bark.
I try to grow in his shadow,
pretend the roof he sculpts is glass
when really I'm a music box
that hasn't learned to be open.
If I sang I could call you home.

I used to know when I was home.
The door would close. The dog would bark.
I'd step inside, my palms open,
felling Dad's five o'clock shadow,
our only key tucked in a box,
all of our walls dusty stained glass.

He pours iced tea into a glass
and tells me he's glad I came home.
He asks me what's inside the box.
My fingers are stiff, sticky bark.
Silence surrounds my mouth, a shadow.
I pretend the lid won't open.

Time grows rust and lids won't open.
My skin is smooth, translucent glass.
Today I lost my last shadow.
I told her to go find our home
and watched her crawl beneath birch bark.
I scraped it off and built a box.

My father's hands explore the box,
curious why it's been open
since before I made it from bark.
I see him through windowless glass,
facing the direction of home.
I squint, the distance a shadow.

Beneath each eye is a shadow.
In each open palm is a box.
I tell him I will bring them home
and that my door has been open.
He worries what can slip through glass
and hide in the dark folds of bark.

His shadow grows warm and open,
his chest an old box of cool glass.
His hands were home, rough wood, pine bark.