Once, there was a boy
with knotted hands,
unpicking twisted fishing line,
trying not to hear his father’s sigh.
Hard for him to figure out
the pattern in the tangle,
all scunched-up in disbelief
of his puzzle weave.
Next, he was a youth,
stood no longer on the bank,
but sorting teenage circumstance
and learning how to dance.
With studied feet against the laughing,
self-concious twist of age,
so tough to follow steps involved,
or right and left of footfall told.
Then, he became a man,
with laid out blueprint plans,
tracing wires to broken lights,
fumblimg grasps before the night.
Hands lumpen on the needlewire
with darkness rushing him,
dropping all in race to fix,
an urgent flame to candlesticks.
Now he is old.
Balanced on memories,
pinching out the kinks and fray
from threads that bind his final days.
Still limbs that fail to sort the pins,
but prize the matted ball of who is -
trying to unravel the reasons why,
he understands his father’s sigh.