I pick up a rock on the lakeshore,
a riverstone the glacier left,
now cleft perfectly down the middle,
a notch at one end.
This is how one feels,
half a self,
We are here, perhaps, to look for the rest of who we are,
and that could be anything—
a lake, a range, a woman,
a pink robin,
one day in particular.
Perhaps one is everywhere one looks.
And then a second thought strikes me,
holding the half-rock:
each of us is someone else’s other—
a lost half,
I bend and put the rock down among the other pieces of the shore;
I turn, and I am gone.
—Wednesday, 30 November 2005