Nature's Peace

Every day when I walk to the lake
There is a man sitting there.
Sometimes he is on the bank,
Sometimes he sits with his legs
Dangling over the stoney bridge,
But most of the time he is sitting
In a little, red boat, with his rod.

I have talked to him, when he
Is sitting on the bridge which
I, too, sit on to watch the water
And momentarily slip away beneath,
Away from life, and I asked him
Why he sat, for hours on end,
Waiting for fish which would never bite?

His answer was simple and profound:
I do not fish to catch food, he says,
I fish for love of the lake. That is why
I sit in the boat. When you feel the gentle,
Rhythmic motions of life itself,
You find peace.

People can study religion for years,
He continued,
Entire lifetimes, even, in search
Of inner-peace. And yet ask
Any of them if they have ever tried
Letting peace come to them.

He sighed, and I couldn't help
Releasing a small sigh of my own.
I turned to talk more, but he was gone.
While still sitting next to me
He was submerged in the tranquility
Of the scene that lay before him.

We never spoke again after that,
Not with words anyway.
But we both shared the same feelings,
Same scenery, together.
I almost felt honored that he had let me in
To this new life, new idea.

And I would repay him in later years.
For upon the time of his unfortunate passing
I took it upon myself, as he had
No living relatives of his own,
To scatter his ashes.
A handful into the water, over the bridge.
A handful on the shore,
Where he anchored his boat.

And the rest inside the boat itself,
Which I then pushed out into the lake
With a small hole in the back.
As I watched the boat go down
I found myself in awe.
That he would be forever one with
The scene in which he found peace
And showed me the same.
And now that the boat was resting
On the sandy floor, it would
Be home to the fish
That he never set out to catch.