When Sputnik first floated like a cork
in the Heavens above,
I pictured it attached to a fishing line,
cast out as a prayer that
would tempt God’s answering nibble.
Then in the Sixties
my faith was tested when, bobbers all,
a fleet of satellites
could not coax a tug from that ocean.
Undisturbed hooks,
I came to believe, meant we’d never
be able to snag a star.
Now in my sixties, returning again
with an empty creel,
I’ve come to understand one thing:
What matters most isn’t
the last attempt, but hope in the next.
It’s the possibility
of an answer that compels each cast.


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