MY FATHER FOUGHT

My father fought most things, but not from fear.

He hated wasting time to combat things

Some fool had made, or could not feel the grain of.

Death—I wonder at my need for knowing this—

Was just a sudden outrage to accept,

Unlike the plodding pace of sons, or seeds

Sown soon that never grew, or gears that ground

Beneath his hurried start to woody things

That would respond to man and his design

Of deeds.  There was no rush in this, no flight

To fear, but just regret that in the final

Moment he must take the time to measure

What he hadn’t made, but must be met.

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