The Missing Person

Maureen Alsop

You came covered in rain.  Arrival was not yours to choose and least efficient was your bleak trail.  Stars rang with traces of snow.  Sleep walked out of your shadow.  You sat in the doorway.  Somehow I let you linger.  Somehow I had welcomed you in from the quiet edges of the fern.  The air was your house and your farm and your garden. Horses blessed the orchard.  But you were no wanderer. The pale buttons on your felt hat, the simple sheep with their gold eyes, the scuff of the sea along your collar named you.  You were maiden, my waking, magnolia blossoms flame across the river.  Once you, who had never been there, witnessed the words outside your voice. The passage of your long music, the flood of sunlight as it bronzed my throat.




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