Saturday's Poem: Little Rooms

This one is by William Stafford, the friend I never met, whose quiet words have been a tonic and comfort for many years. I have written about him in previous posts and will no doubt refer to him again and again. To be honest, I could turn this Saturday routine into a platform for him alone; I would still have hundreds of beautiful choices -- and you, dear readers, would never be disappointed. 

Mr. Stafford's voice is humble, almost self-effacing at times; he was a gentle sort of mystic, a fervent pacifist, and a friend of the earth. His messages are as intimate as whispers, and he has a way of counseling your heart and recharging your spirit, but at the same time he somehow possesses a solitary, stand-alone countenance. He is a man who needed to step outside sometimes, into rooms "apart from the others", to look at the moon or a mountain, contemplate the creek or some small wild creature, and listen to the wind or to the silence when it ceased. 

Does it sound as though I knew him? I guess I feel as though I did -- as though I do -- at least in the way that counts. In his poetry, he captured the important things he noticed, and the moments he experienced, and he passed these along to his readers in a way that feels quite personal. Time, he says, was a gift going by, and he bequeaths it here to us. He refers to his life as "this brief spell of nothing that was mine" but he lets us understand that it is also everything.

LITTLE ROOMS    by William Stafford

I rock high in the oak - secure, big branches -

at home while darkness comes. It gets lonely up here

as lights needle forth below, through airy space.

Tinkling dishwashing noises drift up, and a faint

smooth gush of air through leaves, cool evening

moving out over the earth. Our town leans farther

away, and I ride through the arch toward midnight,

holding on, listening, hearing deep roots grow.

There are rooms in a life, apart from the others, rich

with whatever happens, a glimpse of moon, a breeze.

You who come years from now to this brief spell 

of nothing that was mine: the open, slow passing

of time was a gift going by. I have put my hand out

on the mane of the wind, like this, to give it to you.