My father wove his sermons long. Sundays,
when he preached, the congregation settled in.
They knew he’d be awhile. First, from Scripture,
a verse, then its story, then history, exegesis,
and, at last, the moral. Nothing moved quickly
in Dad’s tales. He spun homilies in empty air.
My eyes blinked and crossed. I squirmed.
Mom glanced, shook her head, and frowned.
Made to sit still, I watched the knotting threads.
I learned to follow where each thought led.
Meticulous, Dad tugged one strand, then the next,
until the net hove in view, bursting at the seams.
I never learned to love my father’s God. Instead,
I cast my own nets now, sailing my father’s craft.