Clouds scuffle and clinch in this March sky;
wind presses our turned collars to chin
and Chris casts his line against the grain.
The lure hangs on the peak of a gust;
monofilament esses back and erupts
on the spool into loops and hitches.
A blue gill worries my bait; then,
“Dad, I’m stuck; strings are everywhere.”
I lose my fish and my calm. My son
offers me a labyrinth to unweave.
Numb fingered, I poke at his bristly maze.
I think of how my father looked, black as burning,
and waited through my own lapped coils.
I smooth my face, unkink my forehead
and know I can’t pull these knots undone.