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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=464964" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Wreath To The Fish</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=464964" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Who is this fish, still wearing its wealth,<br>flat on my drainboard, dead asleep,<br>its suit of mail proof only against the stream?<br>What is it to live in a stream,<br>to dwell forever in a tunnel of cold,<br>never to leave your shining birthsuit,<br>never to spend your inheritance of thin coins?<br>And who is the stream, who lolls all day<br>in an unmade bed, living on nothing but weather,<br>singing, a little mad in the head,<br>opening her apron to shells, carcasses, crabs,<br>eyeglasses, the lines of fisherman begging for<br>news from the interior-oh, who are these lines<br>that link a big sky to a small stream<br>that go down for great things:<br>the cold muscle of the trout,<br>the shinning scrawl of the eel in a difficult passage,<br>hooked-but who is this hook, this cunning<br>and faithful fanatic who will not let go<br>but holds the false bait and the true worm alike<br>and tears the fish, yet gives it up to the basket<br>in which it will ride to the kitchen<br>of someone important, perhaps the Pope<br>who rejoices that his cook has found such a fish<br>and blesses it and eats it and rises, saying,<br>"Children, what is it to live in the stream,<br>day after day, and come at last to the table,<br>transfigured with spices and herbs,<br>a little martyr, a little miracle;<br>children, children, who is this fish?"</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Nancy+Willard">Nancy Willard</a></strong></div>