Migrating ducks

come back to the river,

swollen with northern 

snow melt.

Irregular grass patches appear.

The chill of winter,

still suspended.

Ducklings follow mothers

into the cold water.

And I stand alone

on the riverbank

looking for you,

paddling upstream 

to home.

As the photos of my lost loved ones

frame the past in silent 

etheral beauty

I am waiting for some unknown

letter to come

that does not exist.

Altough I may manifest 

all the objects, possessions

of my life,

they do not define me. 

The living room of my life

is here, now.