The Weaver’s Song

I wove myself a boy of wicker.
Daddy, teach me what to fear.
Matches, ants, and the flail of the rain,
But not while Daddy’s here.

My kindergarten kindling boy,
My whistle at the marrow.
My rustle, my husk, my huggable scarecrow
Who couldn’t spook a sparrow.

I gave him a coat and acorn eyes.
I set him in a chair.
Daddy, patch my wicker elbow
And comb my wicker hair.

Who coaxed him off my porch? The wind,
Grayhaired and stooped and kind.
I should have heard the leaves on the street,
The shudder of the chimes.