birch trees, seasons white

Late Spring

Coming into the high room again after years

after oceans and shadows of hills and the sounds of lies

after losses and feet on stairs

after looking and mistakes and forgetting

turning there thinking to find

no one except those I knew

finally I saw you

sitting in white

already waiting

you of whom I had heard

with my own ears since the beginning

for whom more than once

I had opened the door

believing you were not far

w.s. merwin (b.1927)