Happiness. It's relative.
I could fish
I could find worms
Thread them on old hooks
Cast lines like halos over the water
I could fish
I could tie knots
Fasten red bobbers
See slim fish swimming my way
I could fish
I could pour coffee
Hold steam in my hand
Watch water breaking in circles
I could fish
I could scale them
Clean them for eating
Fry their silver sides crisp
I could fish
I could row far
Let the sun set red
Glide along with a fine wake
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Originally published in 2016
ah, such lovely and calming words
Memories of a lake, a leaky rowboat and nothing but fishing line. Somehow I caught a perch. I was amazed and proud. I’ve never fished since.
I live this poem!
I love this poem. Actually, I lived it as a child on vacation at my grandparents cabin.
I wish I had a rowboat. My grandmother who was very short and very very round put on her big sun hat and rowed off in her rowboat – her cane pole hanging over the side every summer day.