It was all the clods at once become
precious; it was the barn, and the shed,
and the windmill, my hands,the crack
Arlie made in the ax handle: oh,let me stay
here humbly, forgotten,to rejoice in it all;
let the sun casually rise and set.
If I have not found the right place,
teach me; for somewhere inside, the clods are
vaulted mansions, lines through the barn sing
for the saints forever, the shed and windmill
rear so glorious the sun shudders like a gong.
Now I know why people worship, carry around
magic emblems, wake up talking dreams
they teach to their children: the world speaks.
The world speaks everything to us.
It is our only friend.
~ William Stafford ~