Poem On My Father's Birthday

Fishing

for my father

Bored only child
and no one watching;
ill-bred, sun-burnt
truant, hooking
half-dead night crawlers,
tossing them into muddy water,
I doze on the bank,
dreaming--a lake clear
to the bottom, a mirror
of trees with roots cool
as celery, with roots so old
and long they hug
the earth’s warm heart--
until the urgent tugging,
a taut line, signals
another catch
I won’t throw back,
though it’s small
and mean. Somehow,
it reminds me of you,
the way it sheens
phosphorescent, bleeds
neatly, smells
like the beginning of the world.