10 January 2021
By Philip Kuepper
Splendor-bound through scintillate sun,
the rower rows blind,
for the brightness thrown
at his every pull on the oars.
He rows
as much by the senses, as the muscles.
He rows
as much by the soul, as the body.
His gut is his heart,
his heart, his gut.
He is a taut wire,
curling tight as he rows.
Spendor-stunned, he is drawn
to a finish of his own making,
the bar he has raised, for his own psyche,
to reach, and best.
(27 December 2020)