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I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
William Stafford
Read poems about / on: world
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7.1
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(19 votes) |
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Bubba Yman (6/21/2006 8:43:00 PM)
Well, how anyone can give this less than an 8 is beyond me. You need to graduate from your baby diapers, start understanding what a real peom sounds like.
It sounds like this poem. Gradual, brilliant, at once understated and grand! |
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William Stafford
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