Poem: The Riddle

Winslow Homer, American, 1836-1910, The Herring Net, 1885, Oil on canvas


The Riddle

I am a net
tossed into the sea.
Weights in the corner
drag me down.

One hard jerk
secures the catch.
Winch and pulley
draw me back.

Wet and heavy with
dinner and debris

If I could be used
for something different

A net to hold fruit,
a wall hanging,
broken apart, unraveled,
re-knitted into a sweater

But I am a fish net
thrown out to the storm
my value—
is caught between spaces.

-by SPL