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“When William Stafford Died” by Robert Bly
Well, water goes down the Montana gullies. “I’ll just go around this rock and think About it later.” That’s what you said. When death came, you said, “I’ll go there.” There’s no sign you’ll come back....
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“August” by William Stafford
It comes up out of the ocean warm days. It reaches for inland meadows and sighs across grass in its cape of rain. People come to their doors. They look where the trees turn gray, where hills have...
View ArticleBegin Again
Poetry laid back and played dead until this morning. I wasn’t sad or anything, only restless. ~ Alice Walker A funny thing happened during my hiatus at the beginning of the year. I began to question my...
View Article“The Way It Is” by William Stafford
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see....
View Article“Remembering” by William Stafford
When there was air, when you could breathe any day if you liked, and if you wanted to you could run. I used to climb those hills back of town and follow a gully so my eyes were at ground level and...
View Article“Freedom” by William Stafford (repost)
Freedom is not following a river. Freedom is following a river though, if you want to. It is deciding now by what happens now. It is knowing that luck makes a difference. No leader is free; no follower...
View Article“Our Story” by William Stafford
(taking a digital break for a while … hope to see you all soon. love, christy) Remind me again—together we trace our strange journey, find each other, come on laughing. Some time we’ll cross where life...
View Article“For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid” by William Stafford
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 you, for me, a high, passing voice that...
View Article“Friends” by William Stafford
How far friends are! They forget you, most days. They have to, I know; but still, it’s lonely just being far and a friend. I put my hand out—this chair, this table— So near: touch, that’s how to live....
View Article“Cutting Loose” by William Stafford
Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing. For no reason, you accept the way of being lost, cutting loose from all else and electing a world where you go where you want to. Arbitrary, a sound...
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