Carpenter Knight

After the owls go silent, my father rises
to greet dawn’s pied pigeons.
The early Saturday morning begs
him to join shield and blade,
sharpened like a rapier.

Arms outstretched like Christ’s cross,
to be armored for backyard battle, he prepares
to transform wood and stone to his mind’s
eye. With a soft power that belies senescence,
he warmly greets a red cardinal

who comes curious of the knight’s plan.
As his page boy, I put his armor in place,
a stained t-shirt with holes. With a focus
worthy of Santa, the knight stares, intent
to grant the wishes of his wife and boys.

Sweat drips from his substantial nose
into the wood shavings below. Clouds
of cigar smoke from a round, brown
robusto with glowing tip, carry forth
his whistles of a pigeon’s tender warble.

Striding royally through his backyard
realm, the knight points to newly made
treasures; a stone wall and a boy’s toy,
I had scant idea, only a wispy, scant idea
that each one was a gift of his love.

I watch the knight’s eyes glisten
like a mountain stream, its flow
replenishing fresh, new visions to
discuss with the macaw parrot who
comes to rest high on the gable above.

A vestige of benevolence, the carpenter
knight smiles at the flock of
watchful birds as he rides off
atop his pine-colored steed,
a favored wooden sawhorse.