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.