13 May 2020

By Philip Kuepper

The rower raised high
his powerful arms,
in the still, cold morning.
His breath shaped a small cloud
in the air, where it hung
like a word trying to speak
ghost-speak.

His blades broke
the quiet water
heavy with sleep.
Water wakened,
surprised at his presence.

The water received him.
The sureness of his strokes
were a shared pleasure.
There rowed elemental man
with the elements,

stripped of all pretense,
rower and water,
each coveting the blades
that propelled all forward.
I was watching pure motion.

(12 April 2020)