Forty-Seven — Summary

A lone person wades into a far river and turns over stones looking for caddis flies still unborn. The act feels patient, quiet, and absorbed—almost ritualistic. This is not simply nature-watching; it is a search for something small and not yet formed, carried out in isolation. The closing lines sharpen that isolation: “you met no one — / not even me.” The speaker addresses this person as “you,” and the final phrase carries quiet hurt or longing. The speaker is not present in the scene and cannot be reached, whether because of distance, emotional separation, or death. The poem leaves that mystery open. The mood is hushed and melancholy, as if watching someone move through a landscape the speaker cannot enter. Even the title feels like a marker—of an age, a year, or a point on a journey—left deliberately bare.