They are the only ones who do work for me. I am the only one who does work for them. Two wooden oars with long shafts and flatted ends. Two who work, but never tire. Two who thrust me forward in a mirror topped lake. From my canoe, I am hypnotized by nature, forgetting the planks which own my hands.

Their strength is my strength. They dip beneath frigid waters. They go up and they go down and grab the water in their 12-inch hands and wave to the sky. This is how they row.

Let one forget his reason for being, I’d spin in endless circles, going nowhere in everlasting dizziness. Row, row, row they circle with my arms. They push.

When I am too tired and too sore to keep rowing, when tossed by the waves of an incoming storm, then I look to the shore. When there is security and safety on solid ground. Two who never stop. Two who strengthen. Two who save me.