Acquaintance
Because our world hardened
while a wind was blowing,
mountains hold a grim expression
and all the birds are crying.
I search in such terrain
face flint all the way,
alert for the unreal,
or the real gone astray.
And I greet you, gargoyles--
untrue, assuming no truth,
never expecting my compass
built from the first on grief.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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