By Willem Santry II
In the winter,
on my way down the basement stairs,
I pass my fishing rod hanging bowed on the descending wall.
Tension reeled in tight and summer suspended,
I cast ahead.
Releasing invisible blue line, unspooling like bubbles,
I shoot the lure forward in the wind.
Arcing high, memory unfurls along a shining plane.
There is no splash on water.