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.