Baiting My Hook, I Try Again

Just piddling the day away,
my sister says, letting her line
drop to the bottom.  I let
my line down, not caring
if the fish bite, figuring
This sure is country living.
Agreeable.  Slow.  I look back
toward the bridge where storm
clouds gather, and beneath them
rain grays the sky.  A sharp
tug on the line, and I reel
in a universe where colors
prevail, where clouds redden
with lightning, a tiny ship fighting
the sea, its bold masts crimson.
Wind rises, and I want
to leave this boat, climb
to the world’s roof, paint
dilapidated buildings topaz,
punctuate their pallid shadows.
In this world I want colossal
strings to descend from trees.
Pull one:  peaches fall.  Another,
plums, dazzling, plump.
I want more strings to fall
from the arms of puppets.
How quickly they gather
baskets for the poor,
parade through India, China,
streets of Africa, hungry
mouths dancing with fruit.
Wine flows into the Ganges, Yangtze,
and Niger, where thousands fill
buckets with the ruby liquid.
Waves slap the boat, and I
climb down from this world.
Reeling in my line, I slide
the worm’s frayed skin
from the hook, the fish gone.
This minute the sky opens up.
In my mind, I pull a string
and color the earth for miles
with mulberry light.

Previously published in Contrary Visions
Reprint rights granted by the author