I thought of my father, how he matched with care

Grain of the wood to grain, and signed his name

Back-hand and black, and how he combed his hair,

Or coughed. I thought myself the same,

Combing my hair our name gone gray in the glass.

I heard my father's breath in my chest and throat.

I thought of his right hand, now that my hand has

His clench and thumb the way he wrote.

But the white pine he worked for shelves for books,

Tight at the corners, smooth under level light,

I never could handle as he did. Then he looked

Out of the mirror, and I knew I might.