The Interlocking Absolute

24 June 2017

O! how a dove does
haunt the evening wood.
It calls over the river
like a voice from the world
of the dead.  Rowers return
from their day out.
How silently they glide past.
I know they are not ghosts,
for I see the sweat on their skin.
They row through the haunting
calling of the dove,
past the green-black wood,
west the sky brushed apricot,
as the sun breathes upon the air
its dimming benediction.
At one point the rowers’ strokes
and the dove’s call
are interlocked in absolute
sync.  An instant of wholeness
is achieved.  Then all flows
outward into separation.
And at the first touch of night,
the dove falls silent.

Philip Kuepper
(15 June 2017)

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