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 refracted on rolling glass,

hushed waves.

No sorrow in your silence,

You seemed content to sway,

and drift to shore,

a thousand miles away.

© 2016