They'll Be No Fishing Today

In the light of Sunday morning before the cars from the church
Pull onto the street and forget the word --
Before horns and hurry replace the breathing of leaves
Where thoughts float to the waking.

I wanted to say what it was at first that now lofts like sails
On a boat beached in the rush of foul weather.

Unexpected, like a jewel or shell picked while walking,
Shimmering with mercury and pure light.
Burning a hole in my pocket, waking hunger in all its beastly forms -
I followed its path to your door.

There, in the swirl of a receding wave,
In your kitchen, scrambling eggs-
Snaking through a crack in your gate the gleaming memory of idle summers,
The fresh water of discovery cool to the vein.

The dead reckoning of fog horns marking the spot where just maybe someone else heard it too.

There, in the deep sea of conversation James Earl Jones reaches his hand across chest high corn to the other side of a field of dreams.

Cruelly arrives your summer squall, in sight of land and measure -
The boat rocks steady and the sea shifts to the locking of shutters
And the turning of keys. They'll be no fishing today.

-bellini