This was the day of the lost earring,
my favorites I’ve worn everyday
for a decade, silverbeaten discs
from Oaxaca, which I’ve prized
like breath itself.  Last night
one fell off the table, and no
amount of feeling under the bed
turned up anything but dust.
During the night, re-living
Ellen’s irretrievably lost Mikimoto
ring bouncing on the kitchen
floor, I feared this too, like Ellen
and her ring, would be forever gone.

After my all-night restless plotting how
to replace it, next morning, lugging
the heavy terracotta lamp, then emptying
and scooting the Mexican table, down
on hands and knees, sliding my palm
over layers of lint, there it was,
glowing like a treasure.