A poem by Heather Cummins, our niece. The daughter of John’s sister, Pattie. Heather lives in Thunder Bay, Ontario.

Dream-Fisher
I sit upon a shooting star
And soar among the clouds,
I tap my fingers and swing my toes
And hum a tune aloud.
With a tackle-box nearby
And a rod in my hand,
I’m fishing for dreams
In that down-below land.
Sometimes I catch big ones
Much too big to keep.
I take them off and throw them back
Into the pond of sleep.
Sometimes I catch little ones
Too small to be of use.
With hopes that someone will help them grow
I gently set them loose.
Then there are the perfect ones
Which I would like to mount.
Upon my wall they would look great
Of that, I have no doubt.
But they’re someone else’s perfect dreams
And mine they cannot be.
So with a sigh, and a nod of the head
I reluctantly let them free.
Though it seems I serve no purpose
I assure you that I do.
I pull the dreams out from the soul
And put them into view.
I don’t use worms or salted minnows,
I’m not your average Boating-Joe.
I am a Dream-Fisher,
And I bait my hook with hope.