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Kelly Murphy Poem
The Prize
The bobber floats, but when it dips, my heart skips for hooked lips. The line tightens, the tug is strong, I reel in. The fight is on. It's a tug of war, an uncooperative catch, an unoiled hinge you sometimes won't budge. I grab my net and it's like you know. Deeper you go, but I won't lose you. Slow and steady, I wear you out. You break through the water's surface like a newborn from the womb. You are born again, gasping for familiarity. My thumb in your mouth I snap a photo! Shiny scales, and stiff fins, your ancient beauty is mesmerizing. I'm hypnotized, caught in the moment, trapped by present time. No future. No past. No watches, clocks, or calendars. Just me and you. My prize. Then I realize.
I thought it was the fish, but it's merely a wish, to be connected. A primal need for Mother Nature to wrap me in her earthy foliage and soothe my urban lungs with her fresh rural air. To hear an orchestra of crispy insects buzz and feathered friends chirp, the forest is a song that never stops playing. The reds, oranges, yellows, purples and greens. The wildflowers cover the ground like an old fashioned quilt. Their sweet smelling nectar teases the nostrils with odorous pleasure. A painter's pallet, a living canvas surrounds me. A Groundhog munches, a squirrel races up the tree, a woodpecker pecks. Was that a mink? An otter? I think so, as a deer stares at me from the distance. You could have called she appears to say. I smile. I know. I'm aware. To feel small is too feel tall. All questions can be answered in the woods. It's the journey, not the catch.
I release you. Back in the water you swim, and I exhale.
Copyright © Kelly Murphy | Year Posted 2019
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Details |
Kelly Murphy Poem
A whirlwind of shiny hearts and pink confetti, you're the month of love. Red frosted treats, diamond rings, and babies in October. Frozen and fast, you never last, the ghost of the year, you disappear. Incomplete, no closure, a quick breathless tryst that thrusts us into Spring. Days missing at the end of the last week, you're a puzzle with lost pieces. Every year, you make no sense, like a passionate Valentine from a secret admirer, you ramble on. Substance. You have it. Rich with history, full of love, your purpose propels us forward into living. You're the feeding tube for March. Your rank on the calendar proves your spine is strong. Resilient, with so much affection, yet the weather overwhelms your harvest. Oh, how you're the "Little Engine That Could", the scapegoat of the year, the little guy, the underdog, and the one who perseveres annually. You hurt my face, but you warm my heart. With a scarf and gloves I would embrace you! You're a blizzard of hope and new beginnings. The end of a cold season, and a reminder that better days are ahead. The pungent smell of wildflowers, the hum of honeybees, and the warmth of sunshine are all right at the end of our fingertips, as we patiently move through your month. When you're over. We're relieved. We don't look back. It's not personal. It's because you did your job. You sent us on to where we need to be. Unstuck. Alive. Free.
Copyright © Kelly Murphy | Year Posted 2019
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