“September’s Child” by W.S. Merwin

September light gray and rose touches the ridge above the valley
seeps upward at daybreak through its own silence
without beginning without stages with white clouds still cloaking the river
and a great ship of towers anchored on the one hill that rises through them
then amber morning and the markets unfolding
smiles of veteran vendors assembled once more in bright day
old hands holding honey jars sunlight on weathered faces
knowing summer and winter well but bound to neither of them
in the cool fragrance of wild strawberries raspberries spice bread
a morning when the first green figs are ripening
and single birds come bringing their late hopes as the light warms
recognizing through the remaining leaves a moment they have never seen
as I do waking again here after many lifetimes
to the sight of a morning before I was born