Unknowingly she, poet, captured
a moment I remembered,
of walking with salmon,
of connecting with eternal.
Feet icicle freezing,
yet warmed and massaged
by those same opal fins
she described.
My daughter and I,
captivated by glinting rainbows
beneath the river’s rivulets,
had cautiously waded in.
In firebrands’ shadows,
autumn leaves
dying orange and red,
we’d joined death and creation.
If I respond with my own fish story,
do I diffuse or enlarge her spawned memory?
Cyrano Writer: Musings of a Revolutionary Romantic Poet 