Yellowing alders drift
in soft wood smoke
like cut flowers in a water bowl.
Two boats jig off the bottom,
their season about to end
for the hard drinking of winter
and the sweat lodges.

Soon the pastor will stop by
to ask again that I tell my kids
not to tease their Bible friends
for believing in hell everlasting,
and once again I’ll question
what kind of God would allow
such punishment, even for sins
purposely committed.

To him, I’m a black ink stain
bleeding through that bolt of cloth
the elect still use
to cut and dress the world with—
India black, what Christ himself
will have to rub very hard
if I’m to be made snow white.

My wife’s in the kitchen
heating water for coffee
and baking the sweet rolls
no one living can resist.