His tanned, stocky fingers cupped a rose,
turning it toward the camera,
and I clicked the shutter.
He hoped only that the rose
should somehow be preserved.
I cared mostly that I might keep
the image of his strong, gentle hand.
Every day, except Sunday,
he gripped hammer and plane and saw and sander,
but here in the back yard,
before the day was gone,
he held a flower,
just so,
to catch the sun's rays,
as if to grant extended light
to this one bit of life,
and to me.
And I, sixty summers later,
repeat his act, feeling
so much less manly
--my own hand being mostly unfamiliar
with the grip of tools or boards.
Still, since comparisons will be made,
when it comes to hopes and cares
as to what gets preserved of light or life,
it seems that little changes.