Return

Sometimes a warm scent
moves under the tree 
like a sweetness remembered.

At one time, I was no longer a girl
but not yet old enough to know
that length is not the same 
as distance.

Sometimes the velvet of night
draws you in deeper  
than the ocean.

And yet, a line can drop
into this vastness, pulling lost
things in its wake: a coin, an earring,
the words to complete an aria.