The field is the only reality. —Albert Einstein
One hand throws the unstrung beads to the river.
Clear water carries away what can never be owned—
not the small amber stones nor a wrist that might wear them.
Meanwhile the mind spins a thread of red tune
and pulls it through memories, they bangle and chime,
she strings them side by side so they might not be lost.
She is lost. She is found. She is beside the river.
She is nothing. She is a long strand of ifs. Remember
standing together atop the red rocks. She is there.
And now she is somewhere beneath the surface,
Still singing. Unstrung. Upswept.