River's Edge
Our fishing guide thought I wanted to catch fish –
that I had come to the River’s Edge to catch
a mottled Brown for a mantled photograph.
I should have told him that I cared not for a fish
for my father had recently passed away
and I held his rod of beautiful bamboo.
I had come only to cast into my memory’s mist –
to hear the line sing my father’s song
and again his voice arise from a riffle.
Many mornings he held my hand to teach me
to find the rhythm of the line then extend
to mirror and become the water.
From a rock, I cast into pocket water
where a Brown watches but then chooses
not to strike the timelessness of the past,
at the river’s edge.
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