Fisherman

I don’t know if my father prays,
but he fishes in a stream running wild
and I have watched him.

He is not graceful,
not gentle, not free.
Standing there amidst
the swirling water,

he casts his line.
And I have heard the hissing,
seen the silken arc divide the river;
the small, small curve of metal
hidden in the current.

It catches him his harvest,
and he rips the buried hook.
Glances at the gleaming.
Throws his catch aloft
to meet the water, free.

Begins again his rosary.



Poet's note: A poem about making one's life a prayer.