A mile from the Kentucky farmhouse,
the pond where we fished
bluegills thin as a child’s wrist
swim, seek safety
in algae’s cotton thread-like welcome mats.
Tackle boxes balance on the bank’s edge,
trees lining the pond like a wooden picture frame,
tossing leaves in water
midst the din of dragonflies.
My own cast is weak, a knee buckling,
so the father guides my wrist
and my line goes into the deep blue field.
My own bluegill is added to the catch,
strung together, dipped in water,
texturing the surface
like morning’s chicoried coffee
cooked in the black iron of a frying pan.
GL, 11/30/2011. Prevail.