A river far away and long ago…

The river

of my childhood,

that tumbled

down a passage of rocks

and cut-work ferns,

came here and there

to the swirl

and slowdown

of a pool

and i saw myself—

oh, clearly—

as i knelt at one—

then i saw myself

as if carried away,

as the river moved on.

where have I gone?

Since then

I have looked and looked

for myself,

not sure

who I am, or where,

or, more importantly, why.

it’s okay—

i have had a wonderful life.

Still, I ponder

Where that other is—

where I landed,

What I thought, what I did,

what small or even maybe meaningful deeds

i might have accomplished

somewhere

among strangers,

coming to them

as only a river can—

touching every life it meets—

that endlessly kind, that enduring.

-mary oliver