Pa, I see you in your shed—
unaware of dusk settling
on the garden, bleaching
pink crabapple blossoms
grey. You bend, squint
at some small imperfection
marring the wooden soldier
you've spent the day carving—
hands slow-dancing a tune
no-one else can hear. Later
Ma will shake her head,
dismiss your need
for perfect contours
and smooth edges,
not grasping
how a soldier
is only as strong
as his weakest part.

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