The Angler’s Midwinter Dream

I sat in my office easy chair

     As the sun was sinking low;

I had not a single thing to do,

     And nary a place to go.

Why not go fishing I asked myself,

     So I put on my angling togs,

And soon I was out of the city’s grip,

     Out wading the marshland bogs.

An electric rolled past – ‘twas the brook I heard,

     As it gurgled o’er logs and stones;

The phone clattered long – ‘twas only my reel

     Singing out its wonderful tones.

The snow slid off from a neighboring roof,

     ‘Twas simply the splash of a trout;

And my creel grew full and my heart grew light

     And the sun it went down and out.

Thank God for the dreams that come by day,

     The same for the dreams by night,

That carry us out to the game-land home,

     Where the finny’s are fierce to bite.

It’s a joy to go on a fishing trip

     And cling to your office seat;

While snow and rain blur the window pane,

     And the price – well it can’t be beat.

Dec. 31, ‘06