My wife, a wonderful woman, asks me every day,
“Why don’t you go fishing? There’s a river right outside the door.”
And I shrug and mutter, “I’m waiting”.
She shrugs back, gives me a pitying look, and then goes fishing
In the river outside,
Right outside the door.
She loves to fish with bobber and worm.
She doesn’t mind getting worm gunk
All over her fingers. She cuts the worms with scissors.
And slides the sharp point into the
Severed portion while it flops around frantically.
Then she throws a cast out onto the water.
Bobber and splitshot and hook and worm flying,
Then splashing down.
And the current takes the bobber and pulls it along.
Pretty soon she reels in, and casts again.
She’ll keep this up for hours
Catching fish every few casts.
She stands the whole time,
Under the tree by the bank, in the river outside
Right outside the door.
I’d sit in a chair if it was me.
But it’s not me. Because I’m waiting.
I’m waiting for the river to go down.
For it to go down to where I can wade.
And cast the long cast, the long graceful cast
Of the fly rod.
