Holding his shape, a vest
of faded khaki hangs
in the hall closet. A fishing license
pinned to the breast pocket declares
1964 as its last season. In spring
I am drawn to slip it over my arms,
feel its weight settle on my shoulders,
know the ghost sense of my father
whose frame shaped the canvas.
A man whose love of nothing more
than to envision the creek reaching
always toward the river, the bay—
another watery way. Memories
of fishing glint like quick sparks
of sun flash off Tulpehocken ripples,
where deeper still the trout run in April.
We dismiss fishing rods, set aside
feathered lures, the picnic lunch
that waits beside the boulders,
inhale the tang of pine tar breeze.
Because it is enough, isn’t it, to return
to creek’s edge, winter water rushing,
while a chill of familiar visions
leaps to fill the scene?
Where a steadfast father, a daughter,
and all of time wait. Enough to witness
a trout arc its fierce body into the air
to snap a mayfly. Enough to see
its stippled form shudder back to icy water
that skims the sandy bed of the creek.
While we, fragile in our bodies,
pause in silent communion.
