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A Fishing Hole Two pieces of bread, a pole, a hook, Barefooted he ran off to the brook. Forming a hook by bending a pin, Casting his line near a fish's fin. Fishing bait of bread, into the stream, Laying back on the bank, time to dream. Clouds making pictures in the sky. A meadow lark sings a lullaby. Visions of rainbow trout, of pounds, A backround of the brook's lyric sounds. As a squirrel stirs, awakens his rest, Smiles as a butterfly lands on his chest. A day by a brook, under the sun, Trying to catch fish, is all the fun. Did not catch any fish, not even one, Recognize this boy, he's somebody's son. |
Additional Notes:
This poem was submitted 5/27/01. I have rewritten the poem including the many changes
suggested by my critics. With new understanding I wish to share the rewitten poem.
Thanks to everyone.
Paul
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