With what stillness at last
you appear in the valley
your first sunlight reaching down
to touch the tips of a few
high leaves that do not stir
as though they had not noticed
and did not know you at all
then the voice of a dove calls
from far away in itself
to the hush of the morning
so this is the sound of you
here and now whether or not
anyone hears it this is
where we have come with our age
our knowledge such as it is
and our hopes such as they are
invisible before us
untouched and still possible
— W. S. Merwin
To my left,
you, in the driver’s seat.
Chlorophyll, to my right,
through the windowglass, green tipping
to black, tipping to gold, shivering.
Green hills, further on, shading
to blue. Fuzzed slopes, lovable, rolling down down.
Awkward weeds, sprigged, not wheat and won’t feed anyone.
All is Dutch, set out for display and gain.
I’ve come to a conclusion about happiness: I want it.
You say “Sometimes you’ve got
to bust a move.” How would I do that?
Through the windowglass I can get a fearsome burn.
Thus I’m spf’d. I must earn.
On my lap, folderful of papers to which I should turn
but the sun does her thing: down down.
We don’t see her cooling, but we gain
from her careful campaign.
Goodbye glimpse, speed past,
the green consummation tracks
Lost me, lost you,
lost green hills shading to blue
and lost the valley view….
— Kathleen Ossip