We worked to the rhythm of forklifts,
Surrounded by men with strong backs;
On our shift was a worker named Peter,
Who had spent his life filling the racks.
He spoke very little, but whistled a lot,
To a tune that nobody knew;
One evening we spoke for a minute- no more,
But in that minute my consciousness grew.
"What are your plans for the weekend?"
I asked him one Friday night;
"Ice fishing," he answered quite briskly,
Then he smiled; an uncommon sight.
I laughed 'cause I thought he was joking,
I was young in body and mind;
"Ice fishing," I put forth naively,
"Is nothing but a waste of your time!"
He didn't stop smiling or walk away,
Instead he looked deep in my eyes;
He spoke very kindly in a fatherly voice,
The way of the aged and the wise.
He said:
"I guess it is something you must do to understand."
Many years have since passed and the warehouse is closed,
Life's current has swept me away;
To another life without concrete walls,
Where I write poetry, I sing, and I play.
One morning while I was meditating,
Sitting still and clearing my mind;
My child asked what I was doing,
When I told him he wasn't unkind.
He didn't judge or laugh at me,
And he was curious, to be sure;
Then, when my child spoke to me,
His voice was wise and pure.
He said:
"I guess it is something you must do to understand."
I don't know what happened to Peter,
But the story that lives in my soul;
Has him happily living in Heaven,
Looking down through an ice fishing hole.
