In the twilight afternoon where

the breeze lifts the branches

of palms and plumeria trees

the sun goes the way

of the little girl

who wandered from me

in her confusion

I cannot catch her for she

has run into the wind

where the lost disappear

Her face is but a cloud,

her hair a distant grassy field,

the glint of which I cannot

brighten or bring back

As when I walked uphill

to the house on another day

and found her waiting on the road

excited to see the wrapped gift

of the blouse I promised

tucked under my arm

and watched her hair scatter

as she leaped

Not only has the faded light

the sky brings to grief

grown more dim but too

the outcry of her fear:

“Dad!… Dad!… Dad!..”

And I cannot see from where

her voice is calling or if

she will come running back

out of the haze