Fishing with the Ghosts of Winter
Rawson, Eric
Fishing with the Ghosts of Winter after Russell Banks The man enters his tiny house On the ice, carrying His buckets of bait, gin, and coal. The cove's darkness, the cold fit him Like the...
...Outside, the sunlight strikes the pine, Then the little house moored On the ice...
...Later he will maybe make tea...
...Eric Rawson...
...The world dies down...
...The holes glow faintly green Between his feet, and he sees weeds Waving in the water and fish Like stray thoughts passing back And forth, more shadow than bluegill, As the dawn filters through the ice...
...He looks and looks...
...He does not move except To tip the gin into his mouth...
...The cove's darkness, the cold fit him Like the bob-house fits him, Like the snowdrifts fit the bob-house...
...The wind tries but cannot get its Cold wire around the door...
...Eric Rawson to do...
...The minnows glitter by...
...He sits on the bench In the cold dark, free of the earth, Doing one of the things On the long list of things to do...
...The drop line lightly in his hand, He sits on a bench in the dark...
Vol. 129 • February 2002 • No. 4
