What Touches Us

I was going through some of the boxes in my attic, when I found this poem written in my own hand on a piece of paper:

It sometimes happens when looking for
Lost objects, a book, a picture or

A coin or spoon,

That something falls across the mind - 

Not quite a shadow but what a shadow would be

In a place that lacked light.

As though the lost things have withdrawn
Into themselves, books returned

To paper or wood or thought,

Coins and spoons to simple ores,

Lustreless and without history,
Waiting out of sight
And becoming part of a larger loss
Without a name
Or definition or form

Not unlike what touches us

In moments of shame.

"Lost Things" by Mary Swann (as created by Carol Shields)

It was waiting to be found...Again...

From Ă…hus 2011