Great One says Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.
New revelation translates I will make you fishers of people.
Southwest Native American trawls the magical golden fish.
Such beauty emerges in European fairy tales.
Something to that enchanted fish.
On an evening I fish taffeta-ribbon-silver-golden river.
Placid Moon enlightens with her pale pink lantern.
Stars remotely whisper word defiance.
For a breathless moment Loved-God-You’re-Good.
Still no golden fish tonight.
I fish and fish time passed and past:
Self gone, buried talents, waning gifts, children far,
Artless, wordless, youthless,
Faint memory quest, late great hope.
Psalmist declares restored heritage when it languishes.
God knows I languish.
Help. Silence. Then. Whispers from behind the veil.
Faith hope and love abide; the greatest of these is love.
Well. Love-Only-Love, in the end.
Like an hallucination glinting by
Golden watery shot brilliance
Lost and found in the same flash.