I Thought

I thought I heard you breathe, but it was leaves rustling in the wind—simply high pressure and low, changing places, stirring up desert sands.

I thought I heard you laugh; but peering through the trees, it was only spring melt of winter’s snow, filling and rushing along a creek bed.

I thought I saw your shininess for a split second; but iridescence, refraction, rainbow colors, caressing puffs of condensation are products of the hydrologic cycle—a simple lesson that any school child should know.

I thought I felt your touch, warm and wet, a comfort; but it was simply my dog nuzzling for attention, sharking me with his long collie muzzle, only slightly awake to my stinging need.

It was easier when I was a child—faith, that is—easier before the jading.

Easier before complications,

explanations,

distractions, and disappointments.

But then I thought . . . and I wondered what happened to the wonder.

And I thought a thought.

So I listened to hear.

I looked to see,

I reached to touch; and in that moment,

a fragile moment,

I felt

the wonder coming back.