Three days I have stalked
the name of the bird
with the pouched beak
resident of oceans, bays, lakes.
I have seen those water avians in photos, too—
covered with oil
they are stroked clean by patient hands.

Three days I have sought
the name of that bird,
racing through the alphabet to latch
onto a familiar letter.

I recall my mother, less fluent
as time whitened her hair.
Impatiently I supplied her words
when "thing" became an irritatant,
surrogate for the real thing.

Today, as I swayed to the rhythm of the rowing machine,
the creature emerged from its nest—
"Pelican" I exclaimed silently,
a wonderful word I won't concede to growing older.


© 2011 by Myrna Merron.
Used with the author's permission.