Gone Fishing
by Gay Williford

When skies cloud up
dad points himself towards a lake,
steel-gray boat in tow,
equipped with every piscine need—
net, rods, cooler and bait,
minnows, crickets and shrimp,
wiggly, fluorescent and speckled lures—
all to pursue that big reward,
that slimy, scaly, goggle-eyed fish.

How very tedious, I think,
waiting hours for something
that may not happen.
How relaxing and peaceful,
surrounded by beauty and rocked by
gentle lake waters, he reminds me.
Very challenging, he claims,
to adapt to conditions of the moment,
to out-think, out-maneuver this prey.
Eaten, mounted or tossed back,
irrelevant consequences.
The fun is in the scheming,
in the effort to land the catch.

Perhaps I too, am an angler.
I require no boat but
dip my big-toe-pen timidly
into the white sea of paper,
cast my ideas about,
hoping the better word-lures
will hook that elusive poem,
something worthy of mount.
Though in different venues,
we both love playing with bait,
coaxing the surprise,
and savoring success of any size!

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