By Elizabeth Swann
 
It’s an act of faith –
ask those who’ve known
the lure of the lake
and misty breath of water.
So many times, I’ve come up
empty, the glistening silver hook
like a crooked smile.

My daddy taught me
to cast by the clock,
sidearm-style, rod parallel
to green water, then flick my wrist
to release at six – and let her fly,
then reel in just a smidge.

I’d sit and wait, still
as a pebble on the bank, eyes
on the red-and-white bobber,
net at the ready
by my navy blue Keds.

Granddaddy leaned
toward the bank, primed
for the blind strike of a bass.
Beneath feathered clouds’ glide,
the sip, sip, sip
of his silver wrist watch
kept time to the trill of a cardinal
and the buzz of blue bottle flies.

Lapping water set the tempo
while the whir
of an open reel cast
sang out across the lake.

Under the sun’s slow clamber
through clouds, my damp hair
clinging to my neck, wide rings
spanned murky shadows
with every cast I tried.

I learned to believe
what I need
is stirring out there, somewhere.
 
 

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6 Responses to “Casting”


  1. […] The Masters’ View,” “At The Hospital,” “Rain,” and “Casting.” GA_googleAddAttr("AdOpt", "1"); GA_googleAddAttr("Origin", "other"); […]


  2. […] The Masters’ View,” “At The Hospital,” “Rain,” “Casting,” and “Spectrum.” GA_googleAddAttr("AdOpt", "1"); GA_googleAddAttr("Origin", […]

  3. Clarence Eden Says:

    I REALLY identify with this. So well done. Clarence

  4. Karon Luddy Says:

    A glorious poem by Beth Swann! Wow!


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