I am feeling with delicate fingers

among the eel grass

in the fine white sand

at the bottom of the river ocean

raising dusty billows

in bright airy water

for a part of me I never lost.

There is a woman,

about 40 years old

with long shiny black hair,

moon luminous pale,

tiny shy

transpiring her life

on a shelf

a doll dressed in red.

Maybe a secretary, or a nurse,

or assistant librarian.

now she moves

in a tentative dance

everyone is bustling ’round.

she moves about them

without disturbing

the waters.

My fingers are searching

for her symbol,

her voice.

She is the one who will

speak for me

when I pull her from the weeds

in mind blue waters

and as I ache for breath

She will gasp to life

on the surface.