Sun Fisher

By Quincy Robison

Though the sun lies on the horizon,
it’s deathless peach light shimmering on
the cloudy blue-green waters of the lake.
Though the people come and go
drifting through the night trees,
and the smooth purpling air,
down by one of the piers a girl stands
fishing, her fishing rod, an extended spirit,
held loosely between her slim fingers.
The faint line in the endless space of water,
visible only by the red and white fishing bob
floating on the waves.
her eyes are limpid,
She’s a friend of mine.
Eyes the color of questioning.
they question the shifting colors in the sky
She’s known all her life.
Look closely and you may see
the iris shake with doubt.
Yet shades of rose hope
color her cheeks.
The lips, a delicate pink
and slightly open, as if
to call out or say something.
but to who or what?
look closer,
though the sun’s light is resting on her face,
pass the warm dark coffee hair
flowing down to her shoulders,
wearing a salmon fisherman’s hat,
and you may see her spirit.
There, protected by the ivory cage,
a cerulean ball of light, swirling like the sea.
Then you may understand,
her eyes don’t studying the lakes waters,
for darting, flashing, and disinterested shadows.
She’s cast her line here before,
receiving a dripping empty hook every time.
She admires that oblivion light sitting in the distance,
casting gold, casting peach, casting plum, cast blueberry light
on the clouds, on the water, and on the surface of her spirit.
Someday She will step on the water,
braving the seas foaming mouth, to reach the horizon,
to cast her line in that star’s glowing ocean,
to capture the fish that live in the sun.