Ceremony
On the third finger of my left hand
under the bank of the Ninnescah
a muskrat whirled and bit to the bone;
the mangled hand made the water red.
That was something the ocean
would remember; I saw me
in the current flowing through
the land, rolling, touching roots,
the world incarnadined,
and the river richer
by a kind of marriage.
While in the woods an owl
started quivering with drops
like tears, I raised my arm.
Under the bank a muskrat was
trembling with meaning
my hand would wear forever.
In that river my blood flowed on.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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