earth dweller

  

. 

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 

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