early morning fishing with Papa Benny

the lake was calm but alive  

beneath the rippling surface of time  

mr. rutter’s boat swayed gently near  

the causeway bridge stood watch above  

small crabs gave themselves away  

split in half by papa’s hands  

their soft insides promising a catch  

every toss of the line held hope  

i don’t remember the count of fish  

only the rhythm of bait and wait  

the sound of his voice steadying  

like the hum of water’s embrace  

redfish danced beneath our feet  

their silver bodies secrets unseen  

but my heart foresaw no lack  

the ice chest grew heavy, not my mind  

it wasn’t the weight of the fish  

but the care of his weathered hands  

splitting crabs, baiting hooks for me  

that anchored me to endless peace