“Heartland” by W.S. Merwin

From the beginning it belonged to distance
as the blue color of the mountain does

and though it existed on a map somewhere
and might be discovered by chance
and even be recognized perhaps
at an odd moment

it survived beyond
what could be known at the time
in its archaic
untaught language
that brings the bees to the rosemary

many years after it had been found
its true name remained
on the other side of knowledge

yet it was still there
like a season that has changed
but appears in the light

in the unspoken morning