by Eddie Cabbage

The moon slightly tilted
And I can see that fisherman
Hanging his pole in the water
Waiting for a bite of Inspiration

I speak to the moon in French
And pray she can understand
“À ma belle muse,
Permettez-moi de pêcher encore”

To sit on that boat,
And listen to my father.
Such knowledge I seem to waste
More stories we have to create

Tangled lines in green tree limbs
Instead of a rising white Bass
The Blue Ridge has always been the best
When I can still go fishing with my pops.



One thought on “Fishing

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