A Possibility of Missing No More

No burial or wake

ended my beginning

when I turned up missing

and presumed alive at age six.

No one noted my absence

or how loss split me,

searcher from searched for.

Days have burned bright since then;

some even leaned into me.

Little mattered

as I strayed,

eyes down,

a clue seeking clues.

Slow hints in odd places

when I was least ready

led to tales of my unmourned self.

Now, after all the decades,

is it possible to own again

what looks through my eyes

just beyond grasp?

Is it possible at last

to be finder, not seeker?