Every time I pass a pond,

lake or fast moving stream,

I draw a deep breath

thinking of Dad.

He always looked half his age

when he fished for for trout.

Lines in his worried face

melted away, fully absorbed

in the moment

Serene as a Buddhist monk

meditating in Katmandu,

he focused on speckled trout

circling beneath the water.

He fly cast like a seasoned

Orvis-trained fisherman,

casting a nymph-baited rod,

with the artistic finesse

of an Alvin Ailey performer.

Bottles of Rheingold beer

cooled in the stream,

and a salami sandwich,

held him until savoring

mom’s trout amandine

when he got home.

He never grew old

clinging to his rod,

as if it was a youthful

extension of his manhood.