The art of finding isn’t hard to master,
either.  We find so many things, past or

present.  Your way home.  Yourself.  In a pickle,
a jam.  Find something every day: steel bristle

from the street cleaning truck, lucky penny 
on the ground.  Then practice finding many,

finding more:  ten dollars in your winter coat, a stolen
hour, lunch with this woman you love.  The pollen

from stargazers staining her shirt.
In the wine, find stonefruit, ash.  Share the dessert.

Find a volunteer melon in a weed-choked bed,
scrap of paper scrawled with what the doctor said.

Those seeded crackers we ate with lobster salad that time.  
Your lost earring.  Your friend from junior high, online.  

And finding you—a miracle.  What are the odds?
I find myself on my knees.  Weeding, thanking god.