Yes, once more I totally forgot about this blog. No need to treat you to a list of the distractions nor do I have a convincing explanation of my lack of concern. So here is a poem that recently appeared in ECHOS, that elegant journal from "the county". It purports to portray an aspect of my personal history. As most such ventures much of it is fictional. I have ice fished. Once with Uncle George. Once with my son David (now in California) but the details: what George said to me, men pounding their knees, my seeing them now, floated in with the wind to enhance my memories.
Past Is Present
I tell my son about ice fishing as
my uncle told me before the days
of the power augur, snowmobiles,
thermal boots, insulated underwear.
Telling him, as Uncle George told me,
to always tie a cord to your chisel
or lose it in the mud twenty feet below.
You let your bait kiss the bottom, then
raise it a true king's yard — that's
the distance from your nose to
finger tip, arm stretched wide. If your feet
get cold, George said, raise you knee,
pound it with your fist: one — two — three,
then do the other one. I tell my son
but he's in California, a continent away,
and I'm standing on the ice watching
strangers, for I don't fish anymore.
Far down the pond I imagine I see
a man, leg raised, pounding his knee.