THE DRIFT

For years I’ve been coming to this bank,
since my father first taught, but
nothing big came of the whipping
till a day the wind came and blew off
the froth filling this gash in the high plain.
The monster fish grew careless
beneath a ceiling of sandpapered glass,
and slashed a drowned feather.

Back home my marriage was tatters,
same as a heart cut to ribbons.
I did my best fishing and danced the bank,
the wind howled and I sang
till he came to me, glistening
and golden as new love:
the master of the shallow riffle that
I found living in his own sky.

I was grateful to tears and filled with sadness
and awe for the struggle of the fish.
The wounded fisherman has his day –
or is it the nature of suffering –
or maybe loss purifies his drift,
till even the monster can’t resist.

12/13/98
rev 11/25/15