Gone Fishing

 

 

The sun streams in, between the trees

As sleep-filled eyes strain to see

The start of God's new day.

 

I stretch and yawn; Dad, up at dawn,

Had gone to find the fish..

 

I heard the little motor start,

The cord released--he's learned the art.

Our boat was red and in reverse;

Slowly, gently he'd coerce.

 

It made it's way into the deep

Slowly, silently-so we could sleep.

He paced the distance from the shore;

Within his ears he heard the roar

Of throttle full ahead with speed,

Around the bend, our cove he'd leave.

 

He jumped the waves of other boaters,

Found his spot and fished with floaters.

The water shallow-- the fish were careful;

But Dad, he knew what they would go for-

Brought out his flies--his gift's to offer.

 

By the time of his return;

The breakfast cooked, the butter churned-

His offering in his hands.

 

Oh, these days, with life much saner,

Should give us heed to make our's plainer.

We rush, and charge to this and that-

To make more money-fill bigger hats.

 

In our search for fame and riches,

Busting buttons and our britches,

We miss the boat on what is real--

 

My Dad's gone fishing

And peace I feel....

Shirley Ruksznis Young ©2000