I cherish paddling this ravishing creek;
alluvial mud banks,
pocked with mouthing clams,
muttering at bobbing cherry blossoms.
An egret pierces
rose powder blush clouds
against an azure sky.
My cells, the wind, the board;
I feel the bumble-bee waggle,
of infinite minutia.
Aren’t we all adrift? Whom shall we call lost?
I’ve drifted and called it lost;
I’ve been lost and labeled it drifting.
Is a way home the only proof of being found?
(I could be deserted in the Sahara,
blistered by Harmattan dust storms
yet domiciled in your emerald eyes.)