Cloth Box

In a cloth box underneath the bed I
keep my father’s sweaters
there are three I love especially
old boiled wool
in blues and greens
bright like him and sturdy
a rough weave for something
soft, and quiet
the way he’d slip downstairs
in early morning
to make iced tea from boiling leaves
lapsang souchong
a bitter, embodied mineral scent
like old sweaters
pulled over your neck
on cold mornings

Five a.m. is my father’s time
then and now
his and mine
when the world sleeps
and we, respectful caretakers of the dawn
cradle cold glasses
and speak in low voices
we fill ourselves with conversation
against the coming day
because we will not meet like this again
my hard working father
who boils leaves to make iced tea
and cooks my breakfast
and takes me on long walks on misty weekends
when I am five, and six, and ten.

I still take long walks
in the gentle solitary morning
when spiderwebs hang miraculous
and the wet grass nods to me
and bows shyly
and I can feel my father’s
academic interest
in every stirring thing
the way he made space
careful and deliberate
for every snail and cricket
for every fastened stitch
of the blue green dawn