Ode To a Perfect Catch
To write! to truly write, to wield the pen
as but a mere extension of the mind.
Yet contemplating, I am wont to find
perhaps the glitch is buried there within.
For, so it seems, no sooner than I cast
a hook into the infinite, alas,
before I can retrieve,
it slips away as through a sieve,
and I am left with bits of weed and moss:
an unconsoled, inchoate sense of loss
at that which might have been.
And so I reel it in, and cast, and cast again…
At times, the hook is set, yet teasing out
a simple thought onto dry land,
embellishments, initially unplanned,
beget a speckled spectacle en route.
Or loss of focus, leading to a snag
in how or what I meant to say,
and though it lies securely in the bag,
’tis bruised and bloodied, marred along the way.
Yet none of this does lead us to despair,
for there! in quiet pools, a shadow lies!
The fly, a graceful arc through breathless air,
lands unobtrusive and before our eyes,
the pool erupts and we are on the chase:
a fascinating, wondrous space
where lilting lines flow into verse,
so effortless and unrehearsed.
To fish a stream where strivings cease
but spoils the game and sweet release.
Without the toil, joy slips away;
we frankly wouldn’t have it any other way.
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