The Fisherman

fisherman, with hands cracked

like an arid desert floor

skin so weathered the sun

renounced its burning efforts

observing through bushy eyebrows

truths that pass like dragonflies

rowing unhurried, oars splintered

straw broom dusting the liquid

surface winds carry the uproar

of motor boats, jet skis, planes, cars,

accelerating, roaring, speeding,

louder, faster, erupting, daring

the world to a race, to spin, to rotate,

to whirl like a top through the

days, weeks, years, tossing them,

hurling them to the close of life

moments of regretful enlightenment

precede the final breath

fingers lift a worm, piercing

the hook into the sad, segmented dance - unfair perhaps - but

the worm will one day be

awarded its underworld revenge

casting to see the ripples

escape from the bait

this is real, not a shadow

passing on the wall of a cave,

anchored to the ground, entertained

by the procession, as Plato wrote

younger days, he needed no boat

swimming miles and miles

tempting Atropos and her shears

seaweed tickling his legs

fins scratching his feet

sinking, rising in the waves

finding the pulse of the earth

a nurse holding a wrist

man is formed in the water

to the water he should go

reeling in the line, reeling

in the memories, he rows