Dating poems for kids

I grew up in the state which prides itself as the land of ten thousand lakes.

Many of my childhood summers included week-long stays a couple of hours north of my home with my grandparents, who owned a resort on Lake Mille Lacs, now embattled over dwindling counts of its famous walleye.

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Water-flesh gleamed like mica: orange fins, red flankspots, a char shy as ginseng, found only in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear of faraway creeks no map could name. I loved how we found them, the way we followed no trail, just stream-sound tangled in rhododendron, to where slow water opened a hole to slip a line in, and lift as from a well bright shadows of another world, held in my hand, their color already starting to fade.

— Ron Rash The women who clean fish are all named Rose or Grace.

My grandfather sits to the far right in a folding chair, and I know his left hand is on the tobacco in his pants pocket because I used to wrap it for him every Christmas. — Rita Dove, author of Grace Notes floating atop the surface of the lake the moon’s silver coins slip through his fishing net — Dave Read Bamboo stick and he flicks his wrist, swings the line across continents. In the morning, I find it clipped to the soap dish in my shower: question mark glistening steam. — Marjorie Maddox On the gold rock, we used to sit with our primitive poles.

Grandmother’s hips bulge from the brush, she’s leaning into the ice chest, sun through the trees printing her dress with soft luminous paws. Sticks we gathered from grandmother’s broken maples, pins we tied by the head onto white string.

Oh, I envy them, as I see them there Under the sky in the open air, For out of the old, old long-ago Come the summer days that I used to know, When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.

—Edgar Guest I used to be a claims adjuster, helping people and insurance companies make sense of loss.

He is learning the glorious depths of him, And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim; And he shall discover, when night comes on, How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip— Builders of life’s companionship!

My grandfather took guests out on a launch boat for fishing outings, but when my cousins and siblings and I were around, he rented a pontoon at a smaller neighboring lake that was stocked with sunnies so he could take us all out at once, without fear of one of us overzealous young fisherpersons overturning the boat.

Zeal was never his greatest challenge when it came to having me on his boat; rather, the challenge was wheedling me into removing a fish from the hook, which I still say would be made easier if the fish would close its eyes and hold its breath, or at minimum, stop breathing from outside its body.

— Erica Funkhouser As dark begins to dissolve the body— the crown of his head, the belly’s swell, the ankle— I watch him sleep, recall how he settled back on his heels just hours ago, sent a line keening swift and precise over the lake.

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