19 January 2025

By Philip Kuepper

No rowers row
the river frozen
by winter’s breath blown
along it. There is no blow.
Fish sleep, and dream,
dream the immemorial
evolution of their species.

Rowers dream
the warm winds return,
and the cream of snow
dissolve in flowers,
snowdrops, and crocuses,
and daffodils laughing
through their gorgeous noses.

Winterswept, the fields lie
dessicated, the grass
silent as the white
tight-lipped river,
when summers it carries on
Nature’s conversation
when breezes encourage it.

Not unlike rowerspeak
between oars and river
is Nature’s conversation,
languages, wordless,
not unlike the deaf speak
in signs sweeping with meaning.
Oars sweep rivers with meaning.

But the winds, the winds,
the winter winds cut off
conversations, with obstreperous gusts,
winds that state the obvious.
Cold rules, no question about it.
And the too, too lovely give and take
is not to be heard until spring speaks.

(7 January 2025)