Deferral
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. by Pamela Porter

















