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