But I suspect you’re also found, and lost
no more than spring in fall. You would have fit
snug on my hip. Life would have been embossed
with your bright laugh, all by your smile sunlit.
Yes, I have carried others on this hip,
but your warmth lingers here, as if you claimed
your place with us and nature’s listless grip
could never let you slip away. Dear, named
by instinct—wordlessly—not seen or sensed
while nestled fast. Now supernatural,
beyond but near, potential now unfenced
by earthly fears or mortal years. You call
me from some wide-skied place, my springtime lark
who sings of wings gained in my heartbeat-dark.