Missing Hunts Itself

As often as sunlight threads through water,
So often soul will thread itself through you.

Nothing about this is meant to be cute.
Snorkel gold shadows through mossy green ponds,

You’ll notice how the sunlight threads and weaves,
And the existence of the soul is moot

If you only ponder what the word means—
The word soul is as real any word.

It’s as a word, numinous as sunlight,
That soul will continue to thread through you—

Glowing, mobile, and slow from side to side,
But good as instantaneous straight on.

The weird, freighted weightlessness of the soul,
That word most like a missing particle.