image from stockadobe.com
poem written in remembrance of my father, Edwin Richard Etgen, fisherman extraordinair
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The old man sits on the rugged bench running his fingers along the contours. Dawn stains the lake pink, like spilled wine. He watches a heron stand knee-deep in liquid stillness— one-legged sentinel patient as stone. His coffee thermos exhales steam into the chill. Memory drifts like dawn’s fine mist: sixty summers of casting lines here, teaching grandchildren how to thread worms, their laughter skipping like rocks across the waves. Now silence holds him gently. iridescent dragonflies dance across the lake. He shuts his eyes, letting the water’s quiet heartbeat thrum against his ribs.
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