Watercolor by Sharmagne Leland-St. John

by MFrostDelaney

He casts his line into the river's wet,
unhurried lane, a moving way that splits
the woods in two. It's here that he can get
this evening's meal, but more important, bits
of sanity, intangible yet real.
His heart and hands give up their frantic race
they run all week for deadlines, for a deal.

The line he's baited waits, a calming pace
in water flowing where it can be free.
The echo of a swish against his boots,
an orchestration deep in harmony
with pine-pitch scent, disarms all fret, and loots
the natural stash of calmness all around,
investing it in him, relaxing-bound.


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