Still not even broken

I didn't find it there

the place you said I should look

in the corner of the vacant room

under the cracked, crumbling stone

in the adobe home I grew up in

with sun splintering from every window

you said, sweep away the eroded bits

use a sterling spoon to go even deeper

that I'd hear the clink of obsidien 

the glint of black

that's when I'd know

but it wasn't there-- 

the loose travertine wasn't even there

it was just a perfectly clean, tan room

tile from wall to wall

a grid, equal proportions

white grout, newly painted walls

I was thankful, momentarily, for the wide window-- 

a roadrunner, a mesquite tree, fruiting prickly pear and snow on the mountains