A Letter Not Even To Deliver
The world often has a quiet look.
I go down in the orchard quietly
to work every day, because trees keep
trouble away and a grove makes quiet work.
But a jagged glimpse can come — say, when a bird sings
down a row, or over toward a hill. I bow
to near views, and listen close, for this one day:
splendor is not for daily things.
And a bowed back is a disguise. I remember you, fair.
If you visit me, come some quiet way.
There might be an instant; the light might flame —
be quiet then. We are not too try far.
Only the brownest birds that come here belong here.
__________________________
William Stafford
Smoke's Way
Graywolf Press, 1983
