Textures by William Stafford
The dwell of a sound for a while
will sometimes diminish all else
and a whole forest lie down at night
for hearing the moon, where the first
tick and its tock are still waiting
for what time it is.
Morning color opens its eyes
where it slept in the mountains.
Oh, it’s afraid! This might be
the day when white comes all the way
back from the sky where it went
when color first came.
And fur—of all presence it is
the most, a million touches
at once, to assure, reassure,
instruct our lives, like this:—
Be here so well that even
one time is enough.