They searched with tweezers
Through the sands on the bar
Just before the spring thaw;
Clawing stiffly, fingers numb,
Seeking flakes of gold
Shining in the April sun.
The flakes they found were mica mostly.

The stream bed was smooth basalt,
Water washed, eternal, and cracked by frost.
The sands collected in a fault
Proved particles diurnal whose gleam was lost
On all but weekend children
Armed with pill bottles,
Clutching tweezers,
Stung by nettles on knees and hands.

Though flushed with the fever,
The chill of evening
Forced the break-up of their little band.
Then, mother plaited golden strands,
weaving wisps of fallen hair,
Mixing fondness and disgust,
Remembering gold and finding grit,
Again and still.