Rowing In Edan

The oars dip into quiet,

breaking glass into ripples.

Clouds drift like lazy notes,

written by a hand unseen.

The boat carries your breath,

each sigh shaping the world.

Rowing is a kind of prayer,

the sea's hymn folds around.

If I could stay this course,

anchor in your steady current,

moor where silence hums true,

and stars lean their light down,

then I would need no shore,

only this echoing, endless blue.