In the evening, grass along the driveway
is spotlit in butter gold.
He rolls up the door,
and his car pulls into its place.
Webs like sails ripple in the corner
of his fort with the cedar horse
and the concrete that greens
with puddles of moss.
He painted his cement walls,
hung boards for hand saws and hammers.
He built his lumber workbench
when we first moved in.
I watch the driveway every day.
Now is the hour.
He climbs stairs, washes hands,
speaks calm prayer over dinner.
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