My father rests in a cane chair
next to the pond he built
with his own hands.
The smoke from his cigarette is carried
off by the sound of water.
Floating on the surface a maple leaf
gathers light and paints
a broad hand on the cobblestone bottom.
It’s his hand,
laying the stones,
smoothing the mortar,
priming the pump that draws
water, quietly, incessantly,
to the top of the fall
where it trickles down stone
after stone in the mottled light
measuring the days of my father’s life.