9 March 2025

By Philip Kuepper

Oars do not call for metaphor.
Oars are oars.
They are locked in place.
They are taken in hand.
Their blades cut the water.
They pull forward the boat.
And, yet,
who come along but
I, poet,
needing to transform
oars into metaphor.
Why?
Why can’t I
leave well enough alone?
For what am I compensating?
Why isn’t the innate
beauty and grace
of the thing in itself enough?
Who am I, poet,
coming on the scene, in need
of giving it added dimension?
It becomes the poet
to attempt to keep
beauty and grace
from simply passing away.

(2 March 2025)