All my life I have been searching:
a lost set of seraphic keys,
a missing sock, a word rolling on my
tongue like a fat white marble.
I have searched in all the usual places--
in the roots of one hundred year old trees,
in the emptiness of china cabinet bowls,
in the solicitous twitch of my long, white fingers.
I have seen the sun swell up the sky
like a river; I have seen it stretch
its legs through my kitchen window,
warming my wood floors like morning toast.
That must be it, I thought. That must be
proof. But I have yet to walk with it,
palm to palm like a shut oyster shell,
and hear it for myself.
My mother wears it like an old wool sweater,
puts it on every morning, despite all its
moth-ridden tears--despite its smell.
Faith, she tells me, can spin anything into silk.