13 June 2026

By Philip Kuepper

Up the Mystic, rowers
sweep in whispers
clothed in first light.
I like seeing a whisper
clothed in first light.
There is something of the chrysalis
about it, a secret, enveloped,
waiting to be opened.
Of course, opening a whispe
requires delicate fingering,
like rowers’ fingers on oars,
like musicians’ fingers on their instruments.
There is something remembered of the past
about a whisper, something saved,
something left unspoken,
perhaps to be revealed
in future time. Rowers are
ever rowing toward future time,
every stroke a rowing
to the next minute,
which rowers rowing the whispering
Mystic call to mind.

(6 June 2026)