24 February 2025

By Philip Kuepper

The pages of the book I turn
are waves
in an ocean of narrative.
I sail them in the boat of my mind,
the act of reading the oars that row me
from the shore at the beginning,
to the shore at the end.

So delicate a wave, each page,
to handle in the turning it
without tearing it,
to take hold the corner
of the wave and lift it,
then lay it flat,
once I have rowed it.

There lies to my left a thickness
of waves rowed and turned,
to my right, a thickness
of waves yet to be rowed,
the narrative of ocean at times
smooth, at times rough.
I plow through it.

I reach the shore at the end.
The book of waves lies closed on the table.
I have kept my vow.

(9 February 2025)