Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

There are birds in the trees above his head,
A slight breeze skims slowly
Across the skin of Parson's Pond,

Where the thin fishing rod
His father made
Hangs still and strong,

Its line and sinker
Plunged to the dark depth
Out of his eye's scan or hand's reach,

He recalls his father's words
To sit and wait
And let the bait do its chore,

He hears the words now
As he did before,
Lingering on the air,

Then fluttering away
Across the pond,
Like butterflies on wing.

A man can speak with God here,
His father said; and recognize
His place in the midst of things,

And his smallness in the huge
Galaxy of God's fine touch.