My daughter has found her birth mother.
Soft rocks the cradle.

Hard scrabble, this search,
this last search, begun in her gut
somewhere around eight.

Loss colored all her stables.
Rejection rode the winning horse,
balked at the fences,  and threw her
in the mud.  Again and Again.

One day, she got an answer.  Hired
a detective, who took her clues
to the head of the line, and so
she sent a letter.  Got one back,
and some pictures.  Now at last,
she looks like someone,
is somebody's daughter.

And I wish her
the joy of it, as she rises
out of the mysterious density of loss,
and I fall toward it.