When my father turned seventy
I realized that seventy
is not old. It is not, in fact,
very much time at all—
especially to read the Bible
enough times. It is almost long enough
to be a modern-day Moses,
growing a beard from black to white
while blowing on a shofar,
the sound of sunset trumpeting for miles
down the river. It is, I think,
after half a night’s sleep,
just the right amount of time
to grab our fishing poles,
and thread onto a hook
an earthworm, while it is still dark.
 
 
This poem first appeared in Hartskill Review (Winter 2015).
Used here with permission.