Stooti's Poem of the Day

I wake to leafless vines and muddy fields, patches of standing water. His pocketknifewaits in my dresser drawer, still able to gut fish.I pick up his green shirt, put it on for the fourth dayin a row. Outside, the rusty nail he hammered catches me, leaves its stain on everything.The temperature drops, the whole shore filling with him: his dented chew can, waders,the cattails kinked, bowing their distress.At the pier, I use his old pliers to ready the line:fatheads, darters, a blood worm jig. Today, the lake’s one truth is hardness. When the trout bite,I pull the serviceable things glistening into air.