To God all time is present.

Feel it in your arms, the man in the boat
out there, rowing toward shore? The whoosh of quail.
A shot, then his retriever swimming out.
I’ve put my father on this lake in fall,
now that I know a thing or two, so I can spend
the kind of love on him that you could call
motherly. As his heart falters, I send
this life preserver, dash this quick email
of a prayer from this messy shore, my desk.
God got the memo, way back then, I swear,
when I was two: his heart didn’t fail.

And look, there’s Jesus, pondering what to ask,
what he can let go, what he must keep,
before they bring the nails. This is a prayer
that he finds peace before he yields to sleep.