Posted in mortality, poetry

Rowing Home

“Rowing Home” (Winslow Homer)

That sultry day,
summer’s waning light,
its grasp weary,
anticipated death.

I didn’t know it at the time,
but watched you melting in its haze,
thoughtful, with your oars,
each fading cell a ghost on rolling glass,
hushed waves.

No sorrow in your silence,
you seemed content to sway,
and drift to shore,
a thousand miles away.

©2019 All Rights Reserved


Listening. Observing.

8 thoughts on “Rowing Home

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