rowing towards shore

the moon is silver
against the water, as I move
slowly
across the bay,
digging my oars
deep into
the black water.
there is no sound but the gentle
slash
of oar,
of me pulling the wooden
boat
through the gauze
of memory and moonlight.
I am neither close
or far from shore.
I have a long ways to go.
but my arms
are strong, my lungs breathe
in the cold air
of November.
I will, in time, find
what I am looking for.
the moon is silver
against the water, it's
a lane of light
i will follow.