Salmon and the Maple

Somehow, a Norwegian filet

became a painting of despair–

Ancient Asia pushes back a thin tree

so a Canadian maple will drip with honey

enough gold nectar, so wild Salmon

can feast on dew in the summer chills

and down the mountains there is a rage

a heat of wild fire,

consuming the fisherman’s desire–

The rods drop like wheat into the still waters

and the rushing ones have treasure inside,

they wrestle in the forgotten sun teal world,

a passion for success drives them

and never had they thought of sacrifice–

The day was gunning them with deception

and had a nation’s bear

not gripped his mouth around one,

The bamboo would never rise

and fold over, like seaweed paper–

A very special guest

we have here today

not to see the empty plates and glasses

nor the seats filled with empty guests

but instead,

the silent oil that lurks

behind the thread of a soul.