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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