The Gnome

A century of sun and rain, A hundred years of ceramic pain. I stand upon this mossy stone, Quite content to be alone. My painted coat is chipped and gray, I watch the seasons fade away. With wooden rod and nylon line, I wait for scales to glint and shine. The pond is still, the lilies green, The strangest sight you’ve ever seen. A fisherman who never moves, Stuck within these garden grooves. The frogs all hop upon my hat, The golden koi grow large and fat. They swim right past my rusted hook, With a playful, mocking look. They know I’m made of baked-on clay, I cannot chase or run away. The summer heat, the winter snow, I watch the daisies bloom and go. My beard is long, my back is stiff, I’d love to catch a single sniff Of trout or bass or silver bream, Instead of just this quiet dream. But though my bucket stays quite bare, I breathe the fresh and open air. A hundred years and nothing caught, But time is all the fish I’ve bought. I’ll stay right here, a garden king, And wait for what the next years bring.