I remember a few fishing trips, and
holding a cane pole
sitting so still, voice so low
Exactly as I'd been told.
His smile, and twinkling eyes each time I let one go
just warmed my very soul.
Other trips on other days
informed I could not go
(father and son bonding)
So,
I began fishing
in the backyard alone.
Colored, and cut out perch
On paper stringers...
An ever increasing row.


Comments: 25
This poem is poignant.
Lovely photo and wistfully beautiful words.