I lost my first
wedding ring
that summer
we floated
on inner tubes
coupled together,
drinking ice-cold
beer in the sun.
A flash of gold
and it was gone.
I lost the boots
my father wore
in Vietnam.
I lost the first
pocketknife
I ever owned.
I lost my mother.
I lost my way
in college once,
watching heavy snow
smother the foothills
and switchbacks,
watching mountain
birds turn wide circles
above rough canyons.
I lost track of time but
found my father’s gun.
Winter will always
sound like the whir
of a cylinder spun in
an unfurnished room.