By
W. S. Merwin
Drinking
Tea in the Small Hours
An
unlabeled green from Korea
second
pick from the foothills of summer
taste
of distance and slight rustling of leaves
on
old trees with names hard to remember
as
I listen after heavy rain in the night
the
taste is a hush from far away
at
the very moment when I sip it
trying
to make it last in the knowledge
that
I will forget it in the next breath
that
it will be lost when I hear the cock crow
any
time now across the dark valley
Water
Music
As
one returned day of a week the white
canoe
is here again around and under me
buoying
me up in the evening sky
on
the blue water of a story
in
which I am part of the telling
the
lake is part of it just under my hand
in
this canoe that does not belong to me
but
is lent to me for part of a season
never
long enough and the evening light
is
not mine and never long enough
the
rill of waters slips past my fingertips
I
listen and only I hear it going
I
listen to the promises it makes
with
the sound of its going from close to me
within
reach now by the side of the borrowed
white
canoe that is taking me
on
the evening sky with the story
never
long enough and the promises
made
of the sound of the water leaving
Loss
Loss
was my brother
is
my brother
but
I have no image of him
his
name which was never used
was
Hanson
it
had been the name
of
my mother's father
who
had died as a young man
her
child had been taken away
from
my mother before
she
ever saw him
to
be bathed I suppose
they
came and told her
that
he was perfect in every way
and
said they had never
seen
such a beautiful child
and
then they told her that he was dead
she
sustained herself by believing
that
he must have been dropped
somewhere
just out of her signt
and
out of her reach
and
had fallen out of his empty name
all
my life he has been near me
but
I cannot tell you anything
about
him
except
in his own words
From The American Poetry Review July/August 2014.
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