(for my father)




He spent his time

recovering from small injuries

bruises from poor eyesight

sore muscles from running late

cuts from bad decisions made in the dark

sleepwalking had lengthened his dreams

basting his feet in the shallows 
the lake was still full and he knew it

every night he could hear

thunder in the waterfall after rain

the rush of fish swimming

straight into his empty boots
he kept lists of what he could

and couldn’t measure

the number of fish in the lake

versus the number that got away

all the dreams he’d had in a lifetime

and all the hooks that got tangled in the line

the time it took to mend a hole

versus the terrible feeling of time running out 
every morning he would wake to a flood

and wonder where the water got in

if only he was awake to catch it rushing through

‘can you ever really tell it like you imagined it’? 

he’d say, emptying the buckets

watching the water stream down the hill
that night the lake was wide as a field

brimming with fish and stars

the waterfall had all but dried up

three days without rain

dark rocks glistening in moonlight

‘ferns grow greener in cold air’ he said

his words vanishing like skipping stones

standing on the edge, he held his breath

waiting to dive in