“Gennesaret,” New Era, Aug. 1991, 28
They come to fish here every year
In mid-November when the lake
Savors the westing sun.
The beach has learned to wait for them
At sunset when the palm leaves sharpen
Stark against the molten sky.
Every year the same men come,
Three men who walk with covered heads
Together on the shore
And cast their nets into the sun,
While gilded waves break gold
Against their feet.