MISSING

Parts of me are missing

I don’t know what they are

 or where to look for them

I only sense sometimes--the gaps

spaces that keep me from wholeness

standing under the stars last night

the tide coming in

wind blowing restless

preferring the familiarity of my small room

where I am not reminded of the what I could not name 

in the dark mystery of the infinite. 

Why?

I fold the laundry

wash out the green glass

sweep the leaves from my doorway

 put everything in its place

except the fragments of myself--out there somewhere

or within, so near but

deeper than I can go