Flying up, crossing over, going forward. Passing through, getting deep enough. Breaking into, finding the way, living at the heart and going beyond that. Finally realizing that arriving is not the same as being resident. That what we do is not what we are doing. We go into the orchard for apples. But what we carry back is the day among trees with odor, coolness, dappled light and time. The season and geese going over. Always and always with death to come, and before that the dishonor of growing old. But meanwhile the trees are heavy with ripe fruit. We try to visit Greece and find ourselves instead in the pointless noon standing among vetch and grapes, disassembling as night climbs beautifully out of the earth and God holds His breath. In the distance there is the faint clatter of a farmer’s bucket as she gets water up at the well for the animals.
Jack Gilbert, from “Exceeding,”
Collected Poems (Knopf, 2012)
