Fishing in my mental pond, I sit
Serenely on the bank, my line cast out
Into the murky mystery dimly lit
By moonlight, with my attitude devout,
Assured that providence provides for those
Whose confidence is firm and patience long—
And yet, despite this affect of repose,
Within my brain competing notions throng.
My metaphor is now about to shift:
This poem is not found, fished from the deep,
But fabricated, piece by piece, then spiffed
Up neatly so its nifty insights keep.
Perhaps, though, rightly said, it’s found and made:
The astute collusion of both light and shade.