Dear father, I walked to the back gate this morning
to unlock it, and saw nearly a third of the service road
submerged in water. Someone had put an orange cone near
it, sometime in the night when the heaviest rain was falling.
Almost noon, and the sun's finally out; and so perhaps
the road can dry before the next predicted burst of wet
weather. The corkscrew willow never had a chance; it died
and its spirals rest hollow against the fence. I want
to know: who decides which role one gets to play here?
Giver of warnings, straightener of crooked lines; stacker,
mender, server. Long ago, you took me to the Indian bazaar
on Session Road and let me pick out my first wristwatch.
You pointed out a round-faced Timex that could be wound, but
I only had eyes for something with a cheap blue plastic band.