Icefisher
The man sets the fish house far out
on the lake. Drills the hole.
Scoops the slush out with a ladle.
Silence and the lake and the man.
The pine hills folded in fog,
faded to ash and gun powder.
The maple leaves fallen and lost
in the snow. The gray ghost
thin and sinewy, moving off through
the coal-black remnants of branches.
If you cannot see it in winter
you will never see it.
The man goes into the dark house
and lowers his lure. The deep hole
glows. The water is clear.
The low hoot of the owl simmers
the shore meridian as the evening
comes on and the hole
darkens. He breathes into his hands.
He lets out a little more line.
on the lake. Drills the hole.
Scoops the slush out with a ladle.
Silence and the lake and the man.
The pine hills folded in fog,
faded to ash and gun powder.
The maple leaves fallen and lost
in the snow. The gray ghost
thin and sinewy, moving off through
the coal-black remnants of branches.
If you cannot see it in winter
you will never see it.
The man goes into the dark house
and lowers his lure. The deep hole
glows. The water is clear.
The low hoot of the owl simmers
the shore meridian as the evening
comes on and the hole
darkens. He breathes into his hands.
He lets out a little more line.
This poem originally appeared in The Pinch and has been republished here with permission of the author.
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