Count Carl – The Carpenter Knight

My father rises as a knight after the owls go
silent, so he can greet the pied pigeons at dawn.
The warm Saturday morning begs
him to join knife and blade, each sharpened like a rapier.
He stands arms outstretched like Christ’s cross, to be dressed
for backyard battle and transform the wood and steel,
to his mind’s eye.
Showing no senescence, no evanescence,
He moves slowly and welcomes a red cardinal
who lands, curious of the plan for the day.
As his little boy page, I lift on his armor,
Only a stained t-shirt with holes actually.
He bears Santa’s focus, intent
to grant wishes to his wife and boys.
Sweat drips from his substantial nose to his lips,
Down into wood shavings to spoil the sweetness
of fresh cut pine. He whistles the pigeons’ tender
warble, it’s sound wafting in a cloud of cigar smoke
from his round, brown Cuban with its glowing tip.
I watch the Count’s eyes, bright like a moon-lit mountain stream,
The flow replenished with fresh, new visions to discuss
with the colorful macaw parrot that rests
high on the gable above him.
Striding like royalty
through his backyard realm, he points to newly
made treasures – an artful wall, the waterfall,
a little boy’s toy. I had only a scant idea,
a wispy, scant idea that each one was a gift of his love.
Count Carl, Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!
A vestige of the benevolent, Carpenter Knight
with his flock of watchful birds, riding
atop his pine colored steed, his favored
wooden sawhorse.