|Jul/Aug 2015 Poetry|
Photography by Lydia Selk
If the fish, as he did for the fisherman,
were to grant me three wishes,
I would choose as the first,
that chapter of my childhood
when, keen, almost, as an unleashed dog,
I tracked the wilder shores of lots,
waist-high in weeds,
licked rain from dusty hedge leaves,
tasting, smelling everything.
I knew then when snow was coming,
ate it when it came.
Visual memory returns
the sweet astonishment
of cherries from a neighbor's tree
breaking on my tongue,
the coarse-grained warmth
of home-baked bread, discovery
that bread was made, or could be,
a fresh brown egg
delivered to the lakeside door
of a rented summer cottage,
the never-changing stairway air,
strata of unnumbered meals,
in a house where I was welcome.
Mind's-eye in recollected sight
must miss its old companions,
the lively ones who led the way.
For the rebirth of those senses
I would thank the fish and tell him
save my two remaining wishes
or keep them for himself.