William Stafford
A Ritual To Read To Each Other
If you don’t know the kind of person I am And I don’t know the kind of person you are A pattern that others made may prevail in the world And following the wrong
Traveling Through The Dark
Traveling through the dark I found a deer Dead on the edge of the Wilson River road. It is usually best to roll them into the canyon: That road is narrow; to swerve might
Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing
The light along the hills in the morning Comes down slowly, naming the trees White, then coasting the ground for stones to nominate. Notice what this poem is not doing. A house, a house,
Waking at 3 a. m
Even in the cave of the night when you Wake and are free and lonely, Neglected by others, discarded, loved only By what doesn’t matter even in that Big room no one can see,
Security
Tomorrow will have an island. Before night I always find it. Then on to the next island. These places hidden in the day separate And come forward if you beckon. But you have to
The Light By The Barn
The light by the barn that shines all night Pales at dawn when a little breeze comes. A little breeze comes breathing the fields From their sleep and waking the slow windmill. The slow
Returned To Say
When I face north a lost Cree On some new shore puts a moccasin down, Rock in the light and noon for seeing, He in a hurry and I beside him It will be
Ask Me
Some time when the river is ice ask me Mistakes I have made. Ask me whether What I have done is my life. Others Have come in their slow way into My thought, and
This Life
With Kit, Age 7, at the Beach We would climb the highest dune, From there to gaze and come down: The ocean was performing; We contributed our climb. Waves leapfrogged and came Straight out
For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid
There is a country to cross you will Find in the corner of your eye, in The quick slip of your foot air far Down, a snap that might have caught. And maybe for
Objector
In line at lunch I cross my fork and spoon To ward off complicity the ordered life Our leaders have offered us. Thin as a knife, Our chance to live depends on such a
Atavism
1 Sometimes in the open you look up Where birds go by, or just nothing, And wait. A dim feeling comes You were like this once, there was air, And quiet; it was by
Remembering Mountain Men
I put my foot in cold water And hold it there: early mornings They had to wade through broken ice To find the traps in the deep channel With their hands, drag up the
When I Met My Muse
I glanced at her and took my glasses Off they were still singing. They buzzed Like a locust on the coffee table and then Ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the Sunlight bent. I
Thinking For Berky
In the late night listening from bed I have joined the ambulance or the patrol Screaming toward some drama, the kind of end That Berky must have some day, if she isn’t dead. The