Lost Child (Written March 22)

Lost Child

 

For the first time in years

He began to talk with his daughter

By telephone. When she left home,

 

She broke off almost all contact,

Except for a postcard once from Rome,

Her favorite city, and another from Wales,

 

Where she lived for a few years.

She learned the art of very short emails,

But took offence at something he said

 

And never sent another. He was glad,

At least, to know she wasn’t dead.

Not a word about what she did

 

To pay the rent. He thought she

Probably worked on a farm, and hid

From the world, as was her wont.

 

She was his lost child, who spent

Ten years of her life in a hunt

For what had always been hers.

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