Composition in Clear Glass

All I have of nature's in this jar—
driftwood, acorns, and a chip of glass,
assorted chestnuts, pebbles from a shore.

A composition in clear glass perhaps
is all they come to, separated now
from singular moments of the past

they once evoked. I'm afraid that's how
the past seems, like a country I've left—
northern, and burdened with snow.

It's impossibily far to travel there again. At last,
with great reluctance, I'm growing accustomed
to a land vastly different from the one I lost.

Those days, I stopped on paths to the ocean,
or bent down awkwardly on a wintry walk,
to pick up, for a later time, a talisman.

I've forgotten the name of the beach,
or whose pocket I curled my hand in
as we strolled, and the day's talk

has vanished, too, but not a sense of abandon
the waves and gusty wind lent, nor the thought
of something being looked for, even then.

Copyright © 2003 Patricia Clark All rights reserved
from North of Wondering
Michigan State University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission