Birthday

Birthday


We have a dog named "Here";
the tame half wags, the bitter
half will freeze, paw still,
looking at the place
the world came from.
I have explored Here's shoulder,
patting it. There is a muscle there
that levels mountains, or forbids.

The weather is telling Here a north story;
someone is lost in a waver of peaks
in snow, and only he gets the signal,
tired; has to turn north, even
to the teeth of the wind--
that is the only road to go,
through storm dark, by seams
in the rocks, peering.
Someone is always calling out in the snow.

Here stands by me. I am forty-five,
deep in a story strongly told.
I've turned; I know I will again--
a straightness never quite attained.
The curve I try to find becomes
a late intention.
I pat Here's shoulder sometimes,
and we watch the clear sky bend.


William Stafford

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