14 December 2025

By Philip Kuepper

(to Michael Meyer)

That fine old hymn
“Michael, Row the Boat Ashore,”
is singing through my head this morn,
a boat wherein there is room
for one, room for all.
I have been asked, here, to row it
back out across the celestial ocean.
It rows a well-built boat.
It is a boat of which the ribs lie true,
its movement dovetailing with the water.
It and the ocean slip into a rhythm,
the ocean like chrism
each stroke we sweep through.
It is a sweet rowing.
And we sing as we row,
words to a song that roll
off our tongues, as though
not even sung, but, instead,
taking flight. Out here
across the watery scape,
we are lightning toward shores
only the universe maps.

(4 December 2025)