Gone Fishing

I imagine him
Sitting at the edge of the lake,
Cedars’ balm soothing his senses
As the mist rises with the dawn

His lure breaks the surface,
Ripples o’er the calm;
Hand-tied flies from days of old
Made with Grandpa’s caring hands

He’s careful with the reel,
Knows how to gently guide
The silver flash among the reeds
To catch a fish’s eye

He’s patient as he waits,
And spends the day content,
Proudly with his two grown boys,
Now such promising men

But when he’s netted all the fish
To my side he will return,
Bringing me the peace I need,
Placid waters, all our own.