On a sodden bank at the edge of a stream,
Gramps and I with a paper-wrapped lunch,
He—an octogenarian reed in the wind,
A thinning emblem of once-roaring spring.
He raised the bamboo rod—
A slender peninsula
Cutting into morning mist.
Casting.
The line uncoiled like a silver thought,
Sketching cursive across the water’s skin.
It kissed the surface—
A dragonfly whisper,
A teasing incision in glass.
Ripples widened,
Concentric secrets trembling outward,
Inviting the dark below
To rise.
Beneath, in the cathedral green,
A body hovered—
Gills breathing hymns
Of silt and light.
Hunger flickered.
Instinct bloomed.
An eager mouth
Pierced the mirrored ceiling,
Swallowing the glittering shard of dawn.
Then—
Lightning in the throat.
Not metal,
But a sun with barbs.
The river convulsed.
Water shattered into fists of spray.
The silver body became
A thrown blade of muscle and terror.
Pain—
White and blooming.
Pain—
A furnace behind the eyes.
The hook, a crooked moon,
Tore constellations down the tender tunnel,
Carving its claim
Behind the veil of breath.
Scarlet ribbons
Unspooled into current,
Turning the green cathedral
Into stained glass.
Above,
The bamboo bowed like an old spine,
Gramps steady as weathered oak,
Teaching tension—
How to hold
And not let go.
Below,
The fish burned with one thought:
End it.
The line sang tight between two worlds,
A thin horizon
Between air and oblivion.
The river offered no answer.
The sky offered none.
Only the pull.
Only the unbearable brightness
Hooked behind the gill.
Must stop the pain.
But how—
When the sky itself
Has teeth?
Pot the spruce,
Trim the pines—
Crush… stomp…
Ten down to nine.
Edge
the grass,
Water the dates—
Wham… crash…
Alas, just eight.
Fan
the willows,
Clip the tulips—
Whoosh… thrash…
Seven to six.
Hoe
the maples,
De-flea the dogwoods—
Bounce… bump…
Five to four—
Soon to be no more.
Pick
the carnations,
Fluff the rose—
Snap… crack…
Three to two goes.
Rake
the ivy,
Sweep the lawn—
Smash… bash…
Now there’s one.
The
dragon boasts a green-thumbed grace,
Leaves ruin blooming in every place.
He tends the garden with fearless pluck—
Yet limps away from his own bad luck.
For
all the girls can plainly see
The black-and-blue result of spree—
A gardener bold, perhaps too glum,
With blossoms bright… and a battered bum.
The house looked ever so merry and
bright,
With a tall spruce glowing in candy and light.
Bulbs and ribbons blazed in the sky,
Guiding Santa and reindeer on high.
“To
that house there— yes, that’s the one!
The rest can wait— now onward, run!”
Down
the chimney with scarcely a shimmy,
He signed every package neatly, “To Jimmy.”
My
mother and father watched with delight
As I danced in wild, pajama-clad flight.
I yanked and I tugged, I ripped and I tore,
Starting with the biggest— then hunting for more.
Paper
went flying in red and green flurries,
Boxes burst open in feverish hurries.
Laughter and ribbons lay strewn on the floor—
Till at last there were presents no more.
It’s
too bad Christmas comes but once a year,
A season of wonder and genuine cheer.
Of love wrapped tighter than bows tied near—
If only we kept that spirit all year.
Billy the bully lived on my street,
And whenever he needed some cash to compete,
He’d shake me down hard for whatever I’d made
And hang me upside down till I paid.
He’d steal all my money and beat me till blue,
Then laugh through a snort— as villains do.
With monkey glue sticky and wickedly runny,
He’d glue my hands to my ears— which wasn’t funny.
I’d tell my poor mother, “He’s at it again!”
She’d sigh and dial up Billy at ten.
She’d threaten to sue in a firm monotone
From the safety and warmth of our kitchen phone.
This lasted until I turned ten years old,
When fate grew sudden and fierce and bold.
Patsy the Pusher moved onto our block
And shattered his kingdom like splitting a rock.
At just age ten— yet built like a tank,
Six-foot-three with a temper rank,
Mean as a bobcat fresh from the bush,
She ended his terror with one mighty push.
She snapped his foot bone clean in two,
A lesson in pain Billy finally knew.
His reign of terror met its doom—
Face in the dirt and ego in gloom.
And I, quick-thinking, sensing my luck,
Aligned myself fast before I was stuck.
I befriended her first— strategic and smart,
Then married her quick— the bravest part.
And here we stand, years later, unstuck—
Or perhaps just wisely, permanently stuck.
