For my father
The walls of this fishing camp
are filled with dust and so damp
spots of wood rot, and smell of mold.
It's raining; the whiskey is almost gone;
we sit and talk, and listen...
The wind in these north woods divides our souls
between what we wanted -- ambrosia like dew,
the fairy princess, the golden apples --
and what is -- the trees, the rain,
my father and me going fishing
for the splinters of bliss we pull from life.
I've been lucky, he says.
We are lucky.
We say luck a little out of fear
from swings swung to nooses
like love to loathing,
like drink to drunk.
But we are drunk in luck;
luck is the rain, the trees,
the fish that rolls above the water's surface
on the last cast.