My father was a carpenter.

He had learned his craft since childhood,

his work was much admired.

He made a beautiful doll’s house

the Christmas I was five.

It was a dream house and had electric light

and a grand piano

and a match box chest of drawers my homely grandma made.

He made it in the cellar.

He built it after dark

too big to carry up through the doors.

He had to take it down and restructure it all upstairs.

I was wonderstruck

but I didnt care about dolls

I liked teddies and dogs

and wanted a den it the woods

built of sticks and rags.

I feel bad that I didntt play beyond Christmas Day

with the house he built for me out of a father’s love