Adjective: Lost

The darkness fools

what the light reveals:

An unknown place.

A waking to the ordinary.

Your steps hesitate.

Your mind reaches back:

To the last familiar street
and the wrought-iron streetlights curving
around the embankment.

But that is all.

Your mind reaches back:

To the slight pressure of a hand
asking you a question.

To the scent of verbena soap and wet wool as
your cheek presses against her winter scarf.

To the last wave through a car window as the
snow falls between you.

You let go of the idea of dreaming.

The circle has brought you backwards:

To the double green doors
of the school you attended
when you were seven.

To an end-of-August dock,
and the smell of menthol cigarettes, lake
water, and strawberry wine.

To the seat on the bus you took
every day for the 11 years
you worked in Cincinnati,
just behind the doors, to the left.

To the bright walls of the first house you
shared, and the shape of the days there,
rounded and content.

Can you pause in this center
of the circling
and learn the place?

Can you begin circling out again
with Mystery as a companion?

Copyright Kay Winter

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