I don’t remember much about waiting
for the bus to my mother’s village
or how we made summer tolerable
while waiting for trains to the cities.
They were like the ignited wick of a cracker
stripping me of my patience.
But like a clogging bunch of thaw
in the flowing canal of my memories
I have this photograph of catching fish
with Uncle, Brother
and Grandpa—the stoutest one there
holding the fly rod.
Ecstasy still lies in the frame
but Uncle and Grandpa have passed away.
The fish we caught that day
still flutter in my mind.
The pond must be
keeping our reflections safe—
somewhere in its water
captured by the late afternoon light.
EN 
MK