A truly moving poem on a matter I have wondered about, many many times: Which is the day that I pass — unknowing, unawares — which will become the day marked as the calendar-date of my passing? Which season will be the last on my eyes, which temperature and brightness of air the last lingering after the last breath exits my nostrils? I have already lived through this date and this light and this scent and temperature and season many times, have tasted the closest phenomenal moment of my own passing. Only a fact is missing to fill it all out in some other sensibility.
I had thought that no one else would have such a thought, until this poem.
This is where poetry comforts the soul in ways few other things can.
[ By the way: the 17th Poet Laureate of the United States, Merwin died on March 15, 2019. ]
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