17 December 2023
By Philip Kuepper
The boat shed stood a painted
blaze of red, late
in fall among the now naked
maples, ginkoes, London planes.
Herein the shells laid
stacked on racks,
draped in memories of races
of seasons past,
draped in the now late
presences of the rowers,
themselves dreaming of new
memories to be made.
A cold blaze, the boat shed,
blown on by winter’s breath,
a cold blaze building
toward the flame of spring.
But for now the hearth
folds in on itself,
to keep warm the wood of the shells
from splitting, to keep warm
the wood of the oars,
the tongues of their blades learning
to speak anew
the language of water.
(5 November 2023)