The river Of my childhood, That tumbled Down a passage of rocks And cut-work ferns, Came here and there To the swirl And slowdown Of a pool And I say myself– Oh, clearly– As I knelt at one– Then I saw myself As if carried away, As the river moved on. Where have I gone? Since then I have looked and looked For myself, Not sure Who I am, or where, Or, more importantly, why. It’s okay– I have had a wonderful life. Still, I ponder Where that other is– Where I landed, What I thought, what I did, What small or even maybe meaningful deeds I might have accomplished Somewhere Among strangers, Coming to them As only a river can– Touching every life it meets– That endlessly kind, that enduring. By Mary Oliver