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Passing the Oars
by Janet Sleeper Frostad

In the August heat
I notice he has grown,
my brother, now strong enough
to pull the splintered oars.

He accepts his new post,
seems a little larger,
winged back working,
muscles between boy and man.

We are the only motion
this drowsy noon. No destination
or worry. Cradled by water
in our borrowed boat.

We speak little, lulled
by reflections and paddle
rhythm. Safe in silence.
Buoyed by our potential.


 

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