A man sets out
with his fishing rod.
He isn't really fishing
but it makes a good excuse
to do what men do
when they are
pretending not to.
Anyway, it's that time of day
when the evening sun
makes the pond blaze,
it's a scene out of
a coffee table book,
young lovers in kayaks, their
silhouettes framed against
a deepening color of sky.
He ties a spinner on,
casts far out
into
the perfect flatted calm.
I am not a philosopher, he thinks,
but this life of mine
is a fishing line,
monofilament,
barely seen,
stretching into depths
where hidden thoughts
nibble at the edge
of consciousness.
Sunset peaks
and fades into oblivion.
The man sighs
and reels in.
Fish-less he
packs his tackle and walks towards his pickup.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A beautiful start with a landscape. Thanks