Late morning, one settles down on a leaf afloat,
plying his chain-mail oars, his little raft a fragile boat.
My father would say darner where I saw “dragonfly.”
Who knows any longer what a darner is? Time flies.
Late afternoon, Lake’s hem unraveling, Sun squints
toward dusk—leaning in to finish her day’s stitches.
Evening now, I listen to one upstairs window closing
as I turn to open up another, letting a Luna moth go,
then watch as my father, grown tired, senses the fading
light above the fabric knee patch he’s been sewing.
Handing me his spool and needle, he smiles just to see
how easily I swim his thread through the oh-so-tiny eye.