Overnight the river
iced over.
To row to the island
was out.
Marsh grass stood stiff there.
Frost furred the reeds
where, in good weather,
he would shelter his scull,
and walk the island
where he would go
when the need in him rose
to come, again, to terms
with death,
death never a done thing with him.
He was in no hurry to row to God.
Nor would he help Charon row his boat.
But bleak winter was
the season of death.
And rowing helped him shed
the skin of death from his conscious.
But with ice the only path, instead,
he would row to the island in his mind.
He would be the rower and the rowing.
Philip Kuepper
(8 December 2013)
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