I think I was supposed to wait and instead
I went searching for you through decades
and tangles of terrain. I dug holes for you
and sifted flecks of gold down in Arkansas
before moving on to ancient libraries where
the pages all fell apart in my hands, like
the dust swiped from moths’ wings.

So many places you weren’t that I stopped
being hopeful but kept looking anyway
because the color came on six legs like
my head of hair, richening and fading with
the months. So I looked for years and didn’t find.

When I did find you it was small and quiet.
I didn’t recognize you until the months splayed
themselves out against our hands and turned
into years.

We took our time to grow worthy of exploring
and then realized we had been found.