25 October 2020

By Philip Kuepper

I.

The tossed stone broke the stream,
and turned reflection
into a kaleidoscope.

II.

A rainbow wove
its way through
the stream, a thread
of multi-colored wool.

III.

My handprint on the water
identified
the spirit pulsing beneath my flesh.

IV.

Like invisible fire,
the breath of existence
flamed along the river,
and engulfed my canoe.

V.

Just beyond the frothing
white water lay a falls,
with only oars to argue.

VI.

Clear, placid,
the river could not
help but mirror
the rower shattering it.

VII.

So calm the morning,
I could not help but be
suspicious of the perfect
moment in which intersected
sky, river, rower, crow cawing.
Why was it the crow, cawing,
sounded like a verbal oar
scraping against a rock
of argument detected too late?

(18 October 2020)