For a fleeting moment or more rarely—sustained,

Pleasure visits us,

Accompanied, and never undetected.

 

If only enjoined by the soul,

For a moment of misunderstanding.

 

For what is the meaning of pleasure?

 

We cannot give love to another—if we know it,

We cannot receive love if we expect it,

We cannot feel love by wanting some.

 

Love is without expectations, agenda—even purpose.

 

Of days better spent, few can compare to one of fishing,

The search for the right fly,

Which emulates the natural world of the trout,

Who dispose of a smorgasbord of delicacies,

Based on the hour, and other factors.

 

The peace of the water,

Prayers for a  calm wind,

And the continual search for the perfect cast,

Followed by the presentation of the fly;

All work towards a spiritual perfection.

 

But today,

The unlikely event of three rods,

And three casts,

Have all set their hooks in the lively fish,

Each of which desires to be of least import,

And leave the connection with the angler,

Forever.

 

Yet, each fish also wants the relationship to be complete,

To be at one with the fisherman,

So a strange yearning ensues,

While the fisherman deals with the problem of three fish,

On three lines.

 

All needing playing, exhausting, concluding and landing.

 

Dangling from an invisible ceiling,

The cord has different strands,

Each designed for a purpose,

Independent, yet bound to the other’s company.

 

Gravity keeps it suspended straight,

Until the wind blows,

Or we grab it,

Sending it to another direction.

 

To show love or not, as is our wont.

 

With no patience, a tirade continues,

Gulfs of frustration and vicissitude flow from a small mouth,

Not designed to be this way in the world.

 

So, we listen and discern the needed action,

Carefully kayaking through the rapids which are visible to her,

But not to me.

 

When sailing seems like a better option.

 

Moving gently between flowers and locations,

With seeming abandon and randomness,

I can detect no pattern of logic,

Or intention.

 

Yet, this one has a weapon,

Which seems to fill the room with noise and fire,

Spitting maliciously from the itchy, hair-trigger,

Of a mind moving at speed.

 

Ducking and diving now,

To avoid an “accidental” shooting,

A mind tries to reflect on why, while avoid certain doom,

In a simultaneous moment.

 

Such is wont of freewill when weaponized,

By the agent provocateur.

 

One the tirade is over,

A thankfulness fills the room,

To be followed by reflection,

On what just happened.