The Fish

I caught a fish
alone with only six
years to my credit.
Using father’s good
rod and reel and a lure
I made from the white
bread mother baked.
A tight ball formed
by slender fingers,
gingerly squirmed
the doughy sphere
upon a hungry hook.

I let it drop
into cloudy blue,
a small pale moon
descending to tempt
those who only knew
twilight and dark.
I waited, not long,
no six year old mind
waits patiently long
for luck or vaguest
chance to capture
one tugging below.

I remember
watching the subtle
rod tip bob
only slightly at first
illusory motion,
so I held my breath,
held myself
steady to betray
the trusting soul
who nibbled then
the thrashing pull
of a terrified captive.

Elated still
I spun the crank,
dragged the prize
fresh from dreams
swimming the shadow
gloaming into my blue
world, glittering
sun and biting breeze,
drew it up and caught
the line. There he hung
defeated and gasping,
a bright orange

chubby pumpkinseed,
bigger than a child’s
clutched fist. Proud
at first, I held him high
then looked into one
dying unblinking
eye of the hapless
fish. In the end, quietly
I gently slipped him off
again with humble
apologies simply
let him go.