REBUILDING MY GRANDFATHER'S HOUSE

(Magpie Tales)

Rebuilding My Grandfather's House

In the ashes I search for a nail straight enough

to be hammered. (Oh, for a trove of new nails spilling

out of its box like gold coins, silver

earrings, a handful of diamonds discovered

among the debris of my grandfather's house.)

As soon as I find it

I pound with conviction but no skill.

I hold up my battered blue thumb to the sky

and I curse as magnificently

as my grandfather ever did.

Tears streak my dirty cheeks. Each day I quit

and each day I start over again,

using patience I hardly knew I had inherited.

I swear by the toil of my clumsy hands

I will make of this junk-pile a dwelling place yet.

I work best when I take my time,

coaxing woolly worms into a tin can

and letting them go again, dreaming

the night sky unfolds like a blueprint I learn

to read. I dance by the light of the moon

and feel lonely, already at home here.

When I hammer the last nail straight

into the last sagging beam, I will

spit on the edge of my shirt and sit down

on a barrel to scrub my face clean.

I will not look my Sunday-best,

but I cannot wait forever.

The hinges will creak as I open the front door

and call out my grandfather's name.

In the silence that answers, I step

slowly over the threshold,

believing that each board supports me.

I stand in my grandfather's house again.