i.m. Paula Merwin
All this time, I felt like I had to describe
the things I did, and what was done to me,
how I had to wander a strange world for years,
needing to be busy, sleeping in strange beds,
searching through cities for chapels to weep in,
learning the stitches that keep a ripped heart
together for a while, when what I really need
to say is that it rained all night and morning,
and the drops were a percussion on the trees,
and after the sun rose, I saw an insect land on the railing
and take shelter, and a bird drank from a leaf.
Wild pigs exploded from the bushes where they’d hid,
and the sage in the bowl smelt of memory and musk.
A toad sat—still as any god—on the wet stone.
Copyright © 2026 by Pádraig Ó Tuama. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 9, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
