Karen Little
Lost
When I was younger, much younger —
the silent girl under the weeping willow,
I dressed in white with a soft pink sash
to keep my feelings in place.
I lost my father in a sea-crowded place
where cold shoulders stole the view
of his untenable arms
and the swell carried him further away.
I never found him, but have been looking
all the same, in other ocean waves.
Yet the shoulders and arms have been wrong
somehow. And in my search I have found only
myself, still under the willow
wearing grey not white, and as I have no sash
the salts of my search roll down my face
recalling the fear and the loss.
Page(s) 59
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