Parts of myself are missing
I don’t know what they are or where to look
I only sense them sometimes--the gaps, the spaces that keep me from wholeness
like when I stood under the stars last night, the tide coming in, the wind blowing
restless and endless
preferring the familiarity of a small room. Why?
where I am not reminded of parts I cannot name in the dark mystery of the infinite.
I fold the laundry, wash out the green glass, put everything in its place
Except the fragments of myself out there somewhere or in here
so near, but deeper than I can see or go.