Wednesday, September 30, 2009
"Kansas Farm" woodcut by bergen studios.
It was all the clods at once become
precious; and it was the barn,
and the shed, and the windmill,
my hands, the crack Arlie made in
the ax handle; oh, let me stay
here humbly, forgotten, to rejoice
in it all; let the sun causally
rise and set.
If I have not found the right place,
teach me; for, somewhere inside,
the clods are valuted mansions,
lines through the barn sing
for the saints forever, the shed
and windmill rear so glorious
the sun shudders like a gong.
Now I know why people worship,
carry around magic emblems,
wake up talking dreams
they teach to their children;
the world speaks.
The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.
Posted over on William Stafford Broadsides