Mystic Fly Casting


Once the boy made fly hooks
after school for ten cents a hook.
Big money then
for big dreams... then.

Now the boy a vintage man
has only nocturnal dreams
needing little money... now.

How prescient he thinks,
staring up at ceiling images,
casting his line out into the dark,
like hooks needing to catch new dreams,
the ones swimming freely for the taking,
his heart the willing bait.

Night after night,
his inner feelings a tether,
floats beyond his past
until unknown stars
blink their infinite welcome.

His spirit takes heed,
the line reeled out to its end,
the hook’s purposeful drift
bringing a sigh to his throat.

Up there,
the stars, like other fishermen of providence,
pepper his longing with their inherent sparkle,
like the surface of a great lake reflecting its surroundings,
an invitation to join in their celestial campfire,
allow the embers and flames to ignite dreams never waned,
even when often flickering of dim flame.

Is it the pumping heart that keeps operative
the lure that makes the pull-in so rewarding,
the catch and release so needed
in keeping alive the dreams?

It’s late…

His eyes flutter,
as the hook, now a dangling shadow in the abyss,
finds respite ‘til another night.

A perplexed moth and spider,
gaze down from the ceiling.
The man recedes into sleep.
A mystical abandonment enveloping
his smiling eyelids.