As father slowly guides our crawl
Across the twilight lake, the chill,
Which manages almost to kill
Desire, begins to numb. Then all
Is stillness, lest a word disturb
The frigid stupor of the fish.
Though waiting mute, I dare not wish
A closer son-to-father word.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
The Advantage of Fishing
Posted by RobbieFish at 8:36 AM
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