Friday, July 09, 2010


William E. Stafford (from Kansas, former Poet Laureate of Oregon)

Mine was a Midwest home—you can keep your world.
Plain black hats rode the thoughts that made our code.
We sang hymns in the house; the roof was near God.

The light bulb that hung in the pantry made a wan light,
but we could read by it the names of preserves—
outside, the buffalo grass, and the wind in the night.

A wildcat sprang at Grandpa on the Fourth of July
when he was cutting plum bushes for fuel,
before Indians pulled the West over the edge of the sky.

To anyone who looked at us we said, “My friend”;
liking the cut of a thought, we could say “Hello.”
(But plain black hats rode the thoughts that made our code.)

The sun was over our town; it was like a blade.
Kicking cottonwood leaves we ran toward storms.
Wherever we looked the land would hold us up.

Anna and I are off to Oregon today for camping and family and coffee and fun. I should be back on the 19th to tell you all about it. Hope you liked poetry week. It was fun for me! :)


Steven317 said...

fine poem. I've always liked Stafford.

Roach Momma said...

Have a great trip! :)

mllr said...

I love the poem...hope you are having a wonderful time!