Hail Mary
Cedars darkened their slow way
over the gravel in town graveyards
in place we lived--Wichita, or Haven.
By themselves, withdrawn, secret little
shadows in their corners
by the iron gate, they bowed
to the wind that noticed them.
Branches bending to touch the earth,
or night raised them to block the sun
with a thousand utterly weak
little hands.
Reciting. They say candle-vigilant
woods in high Arizona swirl
twisting upward out of red dust
miles of such emphasis.
Like them, dark on dark on dark.
William Stafford
Posted over on William Stafford Archives
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