In 1973,
My father used a favorite shucking knife,
Its short blade loose in the wooden shaft,
To pry open rocklike oysters.

He passed them to us, his heirs
To the iced tea spoons, the fondue ***,
The escargot shells, the silver martini shaker,
And we would first check them for pearls

And then hold them, like religion,
Above our mouths,
Tip our heads back,
And let them slide over our tongues.

Yesterday, at Little Pond,
As March thawed the glassthin ice,
I startled at the cracking,
Welcomed the blade, sang the amen.