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,
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,
the wonder coming back.