1 February 2026

By Philip Kuepper

We row through snow, here, in Mystic,
an ocean of snow our lot,
our shovels, our oars,
our hooded coats, our shells.
But we cope.
There is no other way,
until the melt.
And then there is water
everywhere (and thoughts
of Coleridge). And, then?
Our shovels morph into
actual oars, our coats,
actual shells. And we row
as row we should,
water, not snow.
But rowing a metaphor
is fun, regardless. Life
without metaphor makes
for a life bereft of spice.

(25 January 2026)