THE ROWER ON THE LAKE
I row to live, I live to row.
I pull my fate toward me with an oar,
then thrust it far behind me.
I've no thoughts, just instinct,
no brain but the strength in my wrists,
no movement but where the boat is headed.
This is all nature had in mind for me—
a prow, a stern, a liquid surface,
a shore so distant it's meaningless.
I row to live, I live to row,
until my boat breaks up and gives
what's left of me to the water.
Yes, you will mourn. Not for the dead,
but for the sight of the lake, blue and sunlit,
and no one out there rowing.
John Grey is an Australian born poet living in the US and working as a financial systems analyst. He has recently been published in Jones Avenue, Weber Studies, and Big Pulp, and he has work forthcoming in Pinyon Review, Prism International, and Evening Street Review.