To the Light of September

When you are already here
you appear to be only
a name that tells of you
whether you are present or not 

and for now it seems as though
you are still summer
still the high familiar
endless summer
yet with a glint
of bronze in the chill mornings
and the late yellow petals
of the mullein fluttering
on the stalks that lean
over their broken
shadows across the cracked ground 

but they all know
that you have come
the seed heads of the sage
the whispering birds
with nowhere to hide you
to keep you for later 

you
who fly with them 

you who are neither
before nor after
you who arrive
with blue plums
that have fallen through the night 

perfect in the dew

-- W. S. Merwin (1927-2019), two time Poet Laureate of the United States (1999-200 and 2010-2011), two time Pulitzer Prize winner, translator, poet, anti-war activist, and ecologist

For the Anniversary of My Death

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveler
Like the beam of a lightless star

Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

-- W. S. Merwin (1927- 2019), American poet, naturalist, and writer, US poet laureate (1999-2000 and 2010-2011), two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, who passed away one year ago today.

Air

Naturally it is night.
Under the overturned lute with its
One string I am going my way
Which has a strange sound.

This way the dust, that way the dust.
I listen to both sides
But I keep right on.
I remember the leaves sitting in judgment
And then winter.

I remember the rain with its bundles of roads.
The rain taking all its roads.
Nowhere.

-- W. S. Merwin (1927- 2019), American poet, naturalist, and writer, US poet laureate (1999-2000 and 2010-2011), two-time Pulitzer Prize winner.

April

When we have gone the stone will stop singing

April April
Sinks through the sand of names

Days to come
With no stars hidden in them

You that can wait being there

You that lose nothing
Know nothing

-- W. S. Merwin (1927- 2019), American poet, naturalist, and writer, US poet laureate (1999-2000 and 2010-2011), two-time Pulitzer Prize winner, who passed away today.

Separation

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

--W. S. Merwin (1927- ), US poet laureate 2010-2011

Photo and needlework by Carrie Barth, 2018.