Fisherman

Some day your thoughts
will bob about like worms on a hook
and snare nothing.
Your blood will be sludge,
a stream filled with silt.
The slowest trout
will be too quick for you.

But we’ll still share
those grassy shorelines.
We’ll still inquire of unseen life
with our rods and reels.
As meager as the haul may be,
our creels won’t go unrewarded.

And remember,
though your arteries are hard,
and fingers loose around the fore-grip,
the current is not closed to you,
the waters don’t turn their back.
Our streams are undivided.
We throw our lines in and we catch.