Painting by Melody Lea Lamb
Connections
Ours is a low, curst, under-swamp land
the raccoon puts his hand in,
gazing through his mask for tendrils,
that will hold it all together.
No touch can find that thread;
it is too small. Sometimes we think
we learn its course--through evidence
no court allows, a sneeze may
glimpse us Paradise.
But ways without a surface we can find
flash through the mask only
by surprise; a touch of mud,
a racoon smile.
And if we purify the pond,
the lilacs die.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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