I have edited this poem for 2 or 3 weeks.... I keep changing it...

When I Look Closely, I Find
 
     some of God
in the masterpiece of my father’s face,
in skeins of tattered clouds
                     looking like wings.
 
     And surely
He’s underground with Mama’s old body
and on top of the ground where everything  
                     tries things on, takes things off.
 
     Probably
God-at-work last winter
when we carried that thin fragment of a plan
                     to the shop.
 
    Open all night,
but I look for Him in the early morning light—
when He might be racing straight for me
                    like a pack of wolves.

Pat

I was moved from the first line.  However, as the poem continued, I drifted.  I had to read it again, several times (not a bad thing of course . . . I WANTED to read it again.)

The image of seeing God in your father's face is stellar.  I felt it; and because it was such a strong image, I carried it through the entire poem (making the poem a description of your father not God).  That is not the poem's fault but mine.  However, I think you need that information moving forward.  Perhaps a simple He in line 3 stanza 2 will remind a first-timer to focus on God.

S3 is too abstract.  I tried to make sense of it:  the plan is mom?  the plan is something winter?  Is the verb "carried" the correct one?  Was the plan to construct the shop?  (Don't tell me or I will not see the poem as it is . . . i.e. I will have the same "insider" info the poet does.  Just let me figure it out in your next revision.  )

So I carry that mystery of S3 into S4, and I can't figure why I (or is it the shop?) am open all night.  I think the last line/image is as strong as the first, but I get lost in the transition that connects those two images.

Well done.  I hope that helps.

Todd

I will work on it. . . maybe tomorrow.  Thank you!

Pat

I am heading out of town.  I will be able to access your poem, but I might not be speedy T.

Todd

When I Look Closely, I Find
 
     some of God
in the masterpiece of my dear father’s face,
in skeins of tattered clouds
                     shaped like wings.
 
     And surely
God is underground with bulbs and tubers
as well as on top, where He tries leaves on  
                     and takes them off and on and off and on….
 
     Obvious at times—
like the plan that came to us one Christmas,
the way we made little crosses from limbs
                     and the fun of handing them to children.
 
    God’s open all night and always there,
but I forget. Then I see Him in the early morning light—
that’s when He comes straight for me
                    like a pack of wolves.