9 June 2019
By Philip Kuepper
The silver light
hammered silver the river,
silvered the rower
who slid to a halt to catch
his breath, north of the Seaport,
south of I-95. The light
turned white-gold the evergreens.
The leaves of maples shined,
high as the whine of a saxophone.
A jay sang the blues
through the blue-silver air.
The rower pulled back on his oars,
and slipped into motion,
motion awash with light,
liquid as mercury.
Then the sun rose full
in an explosion of gold.
(3 June 2019)