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| rdfs:comment | - A poem attributed to Fisher. "The dead have found me in my dreamsFishing beside lakes and in strange housesThat could be homes for lost familiesIn all the pleasures of completenessAnd I wander through their natural companyIn the soft comforts of contentment.The dead greet me with knowing easeAnd regard nothing the forsaken awakeningThat abandons me in this new solitudeOf eyes flickering open and curtains drawing.When the dead find me in my dreamsI see them living in the hidden placesUnanchored in time and ageless as wishes.The woman lying at my side hears my sighFollowing the morning chime and asksAfter me as I lie in the wake of sorrow’s concert,But I will not speak of life’s lonelinessOr the empty shorelines where fishermen belongAnd the houses never lived in never againThat stand in nec
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| abstract | - A poem attributed to Fisher. "The dead have found me in my dreamsFishing beside lakes and in strange housesThat could be homes for lost familiesIn all the pleasures of completenessAnd I wander through their natural companyIn the soft comforts of contentment.The dead greet me with knowing easeAnd regard nothing the forsaken awakeningThat abandons me in this new solitudeOf eyes flickering open and curtains drawing.When the dead find me in my dreamsI see them living in the hidden placesUnanchored in time and ageless as wishes.The woman lying at my side hears my sighFollowing the morning chime and asksAfter me as I lie in the wake of sorrow’s concert,But I will not speak of life’s lonelinessOr the empty shorelines where fishermen belongAnd the houses never lived in never againThat stand in necessary configurationsTo build us familiar places for the dead.One day I will journey into her dreamsBut I say nothing of this behind my smileAnd she will see me hunting the dark watersFor the flit of trout and we will travelStrange landscapes in the forever instantUntil she leaves me for the living dayBut as the dead well know the art of fishingFinds its reward in brilliant joyous hopeAnd eternal loving patience, and it is myThought now that such gods that existAre the makers of dreams and this is their giftThis blessed river of sleep and dreamsWhere in wonder we may greet our deadAnd sages and priests are wise when they sayDeath is but sleep and we are forever aliveIn the dreams of the living, for I have seenMy dead on nightly journeys and I tell you this:They are well." ―Song of DreamingFisher
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