W.S. Merwin




Left Hand

One morning I look at it with surprise
that gives off a known but fathomless sound
what is it that I recognize with such
unappeased gratitude this is what I
have taken to be my own all my life
my own left hand that had nothing to do
but what I wanted as well as it could
that grew up with me as a part of me
with no mind of its own that I know of
and no existence apart from my own
its scars its habits are my own story
it does not hear what I say about it
or know what I know of its long journey
before it was mine the little finger
reaching to touch the thumb the first time
startled speechless finding the way to it
again kindling a brightness beyond it
to which it belonged and with which it was
going what can I say to it even
now when it has helped me on to the words
that have been picked up before I had learned
what they might be for and when the time comes
to use them what can they hold and carry
how far can they reach what sense will they touch