Harvest

I sit and wait
Above my own reflection
And little change in direction
For the cautious guests to arrive.

Out of the dark depths they come
To bite and taste at the end of my wire,
So I bring them up, just a little, then higher
To observe the splendor

And the helplessness.

I choose the fate.
The death of my prisoner,
Or the immortalized prize
Of my motionless venture.

3-22-10