Fishing Pole: In Memory of Raymond L. Peery, by Paul F.

In the corner it sits, propped up on a chair, reclining near a T.V.
Like my grandfather on many Sunday afternoons
Deceptively strong and resilient for its size, though it is only wider than a bundle of
toothpicks
Bend, don’t break, this was the fishing pole of my grandfather
The sturdy shaft was flexible enough to bend when needed, contorted against the strong
pull of a fish, still hidden under the glass-like layer of water
Yet uncompromising in its task and staying strong under pressure
Up early, before the sun reached its long, broken arms over the Blue Ridge Mountains
It would work all day, without complaint
Always seeming to provide for those who depended on it, providing food like a cloud
provides water
The hook on the end, sharp to reprimand when needed,
Yet soft enough to comfort those afflicted hands in times of sorrow and grief
Like an old man’s face, complex in the many workings of its lines
Yet simple enough to bring joy to all who encounter it
It gained respect for these characteristics and more
And much like its owner, will always be honored and never forgotten in its lore