Always calling me home to the moment around me

I want to tell you stories from Ireland, from the muddy-bottomed mountain lakes and the narrow roads that carried us around the Ring of Kerry, from the crow-filled parks I passed on buses and the full bellies and late nights in Cork. Or more stories from England, full of people we love and Pimm's and skies still lit bright late into the night. But I'm still recovering, still processing, so bear with me for a moment.

Until I get there, I wanted to share with you this poem from our new laureate, W.S. Merwin, whom I once saw in conversation with Joan Didion. I don't own many books of poetry, but after seeing Merwin talk, I went out and got Present Company. I find this one appropriate for now.

To Impatience

Don't wish your life away
my mother said and I saw
past her words that same day
suddenly not there
nor the days after
even the ones I remember

and though hands held back the hounds
on the way to the hunt
now the fleet deer are gone
that bounded before them
all too soon overtaken
as she knew they would be

and well as she warned me
always calling me home
to the moment around me
that was taking its good time
and willingly though I
heeded her words to me
once again waking me
to the breath that was there

you too kept whispering
up close to my ear
the secrets of hunger
for some prize not yet there
sight of face touch of skin
light in another valley
labor triumphant or
last word of a story
without which you insisted
the world would not be complete
soon soon you repeated
it cannot be too soon

yet you know it can
and you know it would be
the end of you too only
if ever it arrives
you find something else missing
and I know I must thank you
for your faithful discontent
and what it has led me to
yes yes you have guided me
but what is hard now to see
is the mortal hurry

– W.S. Merwin, from Present Company, 2005, Copper Canyon Press