As the noise of the world retreated,
the river rose
in the old rower's mind, the river
that brought calm to him,
the river he still rowed,
but mentally only now.
He slept in spells.
On waking, the river
stretched before him
in his mind, his shell afloat
waiting for him
to grab hold its oars.
He would begin to row
out toward the unforeseeable
horizon. the horizon
where Death waited, patiently,
to guide him onto the river
stretching toward Eternity.
He would smile thinking rowing there,
his body tired from carrying
the weight of his flesh,
his bones feeling more and more
the touch of the spirit.
He would smile himself to sleep
at the thought of the spirit touching
him, touching his bones, the spirit
taking hold his oars. He would
row then, row like fire.
Philip Kuepper
(9 May, 2013)
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