connections

Before I left, Mom tucked a poem into my suitcase. It was by W.S. Merwin, titled

"One of the Butterflies." I'd only pulled it out to look at it this morning. Why did the poet's name sound so familiar? I realized that it was because, riding the DART the other day, I had copied down a Merwin poem that had been written on the side of the carriage.

One of the Butterflies

(Ma)

The trouble with pleasure is the timing

it can overtake me without warning

and be gone before I know it is here

it can stand facing me unrecognized

while I am remembering somewhere else

in another age or someone not seen

for years and never to be seen again

in this world and it seems that I cherish

only now a joy I was not aware of

when it was here although it remains

out of reach and will not be caught or named

or called back and if I could make it stay

as I want to it would turn to pain.

Separation

(DART)

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.