My Fathers Sketchbook
Wisteria branch encircled in her arm. Wild flag.
In full kimono, wisteria maid standing alone at a transfer station.
A travel portrait from Hiroshige’s sketchbook
taped to the inside cover of my fathers sketchbook.
Father’s neat, straight lines with numbers running
along the sides. Roadwork. Rough thick earth
of another planet. Binding encrusted in asphalt,
layer upon layer. On the next page, he drew a mast
long racemes tethered to a sailboat. Petals,
recklessly floating downstream.
Only later I remembered high school,
praying to the Fifty-Three Stations. After I left,
he must have rescued the woman
off my bedroom wall. The rendering was my doorway.
Her hand hidden in a hem of intricate knots, her gaze
intent on reaching where. No oxen or other travelers.
My fathers sketchbook:
No hint of woman,
Wisteria on a paper wave.