How like, to the rower,
it looked all water,
the bay beyond the river
he had just rowed,
and at the far edge
of the bay before him
where the bay appeared to seam
with the sky.  He would row
there.  And then what?
Dip the bow of his shell
in the watery sky,
and row, climbing,
higher, higher until
he reached Arcturus?

Why Arcturus?  Why,
of all stars, Arcturus?

Surely not merely
because it was
a star of the first magnitude.
Why not the evening star?
Why not the morning one?

No.  It had to be
Arcturus, solely,
solely for the feel
of its syllables on his tongue.

Philip Kuepper
23 July 2014