across the bay

the time your father
rowed his children, all five
across cape cod bay
in the leaky wooden
rowboat, with no life
jackets, comes to mind.
the grey rough water,
the sunless day, the power
of his arms pulling
pulling, as you hung on,
unaware of drowning,
or what might lie
below. was he proving
something to himself,
was he crazy, who's
to know. but he did row,
he did get to
the other shore then
back again. no one died,
and when you see him now,
at eighty-six, he fondly
remembers that, smiling.