At evening my father lays down his tools
while the sun sets the sea on fire.
Who among the heavens knows
why he heaped lumber in the yard
as when he was a young man, and now
my father, sudden maker
of a shed,
is Noah building an ark
for his hammers and his saws.
Rain-tight, mitres snug. Plumb.
It will outlast him.
The rains, when they come, will be long.
Destiny shook her head at me and said
at the appointed time, he must cross alone.
Then bring your lamps, your bundled flowers.
Bring lupines, lilac, apple blossom.
Leave your oars and your grief.
See the waters blazing, lit.
The darkness may not have him yet.
From No Ordinary Place (forthcoming from Ronsdale Press in Spring 2012).
Used here with the author’s permission.