18 May 2025

By Philip Kuepper

Rowers writhe
on the cross
of absolute exhaustion.
The writhe, embodied agony,
gasping for the breath
of life. They sit in their shells,
bent, withered
branches of the tree of man,
breath returns to, slowly,
flowing through their veins
with the wine of new strength.
They hang erect at the podium
where laurels hang, crowns,
to a race well done.
All are
victors who cross
the cross of the finish line.

(7 May 2025)