21 February 2021
By Philip Kuepper
The wood is warmed by winter sun,
the wood of the table where the rower sits,
going through the motions
of rowing in his mind.
It is early spring.
He is locking the oars in place.
The air is crisp.
The river’s skin shivers.
The blades dip into the water,
with the sound of mouths swallowing.
The shell slips into motion.
He feels the pull of the oars
on the imaginary river.
He is moving through air
with the quiet power of his presence.
He is breaking through the silk-woven
cobweb of wintertime.
He is daydreaming himself
toward the coming
reality of warmer weather.
(13 February 2021)
