The fisherman

Times I wish to be back, hauling

nets, often unfilled, inevitable

smell of fish on my hands, my hair,

my clothes, my feet, what my father

said I was born to do, hothead that

I was.

My enthusiasm, my bravado,

tamed, three times

tamed.

No bravado now, when I stand

before crowds, before priests,

only words, measured words,

quiet words marked with a conviction

I did not know, then, words

coming from external to me, shaking

my very being before embedding

in my heart.

Words.

The word.

Three times I lied

three times I denied

one time I ran and hid

They listen, not all, some

only hear, and afterward

I stand amazed at what

God does with liars,

and deniers.

This poem began with listening to a sermon on Acts 3:1-10 and 19-20.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.