When Whatever Comes Next

He is by himself

taking care of his miniature corner of the universe. 

He waters the succulents

on his sunny deck, 

dialing the hose nozzle 

to “shower”

so as not to knock 

the clay pots from their perch.

He reserves the “full” hose blast

to propel the fall leaves off the planks,

his deck now clean, 

dark redwood renewed with wetness.

He thinks of himself as an artist preparing a new canvas.

He is thinking about the future,

how without him in it,

something new and brilliant

will manifest itself without being unduly influenced

by what has already been made apparent. 

The man, who is a father, sees himself as an editor of sorts,

alone on his deck, trusting

in his advanced age that less is more,

and that what disappears from the little deck, what he gently

with intention hoses away,

will make a difference, a good difference,

when whatever comes next, comes.