My father kneels on the St. Augustine,
hands braiding in green and white repair of a torn lawn chair.
His fingers thick, right thumbnail puddled with a blue bruise.
Head tilted, his eyes focus on this morning’s work.
A wasp swings its glassy wings beneath the eave
to daub more mud on the coned dome it fashions
which we do not destroy. Its brown husk will remain,
dry and solid, long after my father’s return to clay.
And still he kneels, fearless, and weaves.
©JP Reese 2010
First published at Connotation Press, June, 2010