Accommodation

At midday we sit gently
Swaying against the gunwales
And watch a dragonfly
Tip rod after rod and sit on each
Like a crisp flower.

At 70, we are asea and silent.
There is only water, the glare
From the acid sun, and space.
The day goes long
While the slight breeze winnows away

Our long years of difference.
The hours of stillness
Burn forever into the slow
Roll of our own piece of this big water,
Our instant of final accommodation.

The fish bite slowly as
My father at garage sales — persistent
Tugging and laying back. So like us,
This boating, this fishing,
This lifetime on the sea.