Fish Farm

My writing desk looks out over a fish farm. I have enjoyed watching their activities in the hand-dug pools over the changing seasons. The following poem is a reflection from watching that fish farm.

Well-carved paths—

      clear,

      defined—

form living pools

where all things good

and precious grow.

 

Laboring at the emerald pools—

      mending tall retaining nets,

      tending growing silvery jewels,

      keeping watch on bird and snake—

all our eyes

on water and sky.

 

When time-to-time,

torrential rains

submerge the paths—

      all pools, one lake—

then all our thoughts are on the crop—

      the goodness safe in well-laid nets.

 

But now the dry has seasoned in—

      waters low reveal the state,

      of what lurked underneath:

The once-sharp paths have withered down—

      a slide of silt that shallows all;

      fish flounder in their soiled wells.

 

So dredge that dirt up from those depths

and pack it back behind its bounds.

Repair the walls that shored it up—

      raise once more forgotten beams,

      the path made sure by fallen tree.

 

Remember now neglected truth—

      It is the path

      that makes the pool.

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