Sky Blue Lake
The rowboat rested motionless on the water,
No memory of where it had been,
No thought of where it might go,
Its bare wood stark against the mirror-smooth surface,
Oars still in their oarlocks, time not passing.
The shore was thick with majestic trees,
The mountain neither dark nor distant.
The old boatman drank the silence to his fill.
Then he took the oars again and began to row.
by Robert Hampton Burt main page