23 April 2018

All, then, that was left
to row with
were the oars of hope.
Exhaustion inhabited
every bone and sinew
of their bodies.
Like refugees having set out
from the shores of oppression,
the rowers had set out
from the sound of the start gun.
The water, kind at first,
receiving them with calm,
had turned on them
once the shore was beyond reach.
And like refugees caught
between desire and realization,
the rowers oared the ever
more congealing water,
liquidity becoming gelatinous
as muscles began to tire.
Hope kicked in
with a slow, persistent oaring.
Like refugees, the rowers
looked forward toward the still
invisible shore visible
in their imaginations.

Philip Kuepper
(11 February 2018)