If I could grasp the nature of the loss,
then I might plan a journey and a search.
My emissary dreams fly back, across
a length of years and lands, and lightly perch
on a remembered twig and scan the past.
It may have been a face, a place, a key,
a rosy bit of feldspar, or a last
unspotted page of childhood diary.
I only know I lost beside a river
a shred of life my quiet labors need.
Bird-thoughts and I have long tried to discover
something elusive as a mustard seed.
It could be that one day the river stole
and carried to the endless sea my soul.