Stroke; the oars feel good in my hands;
The bow soon points to the camp on the distant shore.

Stroke; the oars make puddles in the lake’s smooth surface;
A sliver of a moon marks the lake’s outlet,
A sentinel insuring the lake’s tranquility.

Stroke; the easy rhythm is readily established;
The echoes of my childhood are everywhere,
Graven indelibly on my memory.

Stroke; this daily ritual of rowing;
This passage by boat will never pale.
Many who influenced my life are long since dead and gone,
But they remain alive to me as comforting, ever present angels.

Stroke; there is joy in the exercise;
And an overwhelming sense of thankfulness
That it has been my luck, and my heritage,
That has made this unique place a reality.

Penned again by my father.

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The stillness is enveloping;
A far cry from the insistent din
Of a city that never sleeps;
A contrast to the relative quiet
Of the staid suburban neighborhood.

The sound of the birds is even loud;
A soft, southwest breeze brushes my shoulder
And brings the promise of another glorious day.
Tendrils of early sun light the nooks and crannies
Of the camps and boathouses, secure in their longevity.

Wisps of mist drift up from the forest canopy
To evaporate as the morning sun pours over the trees.
The lake surface reflects the sky
And the water, soft, green and 72 degrees
Issues a silky invitation for the morning swim.

How long has it been,
This repeated ritual,
A family tradition
For more than 100 years ?
Wet hair at breakfast . . .
One is surely a member of the clan.

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To be alive at 75 . . .
Awesome . . .
Somehow intimidating,
But wonderful.

However, death
Now becomes
A very real specter,
Hovering out there,
But yet unknown.

This reality
Lends an immediacy
To all that I do.

If I have a message,
And I feel that I do,
Now is the time
To speak
And to be heard.

I have been
One of the fortunate,
Blessed and showered
With opportunity,
Family and friends.

May I use
Whatever time is left
Wisely, well
And with caring and love for all.

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