Report to Someone
We think we're all there is, then the big light,
and a call comes and everyone understands.
All right, we're lonely:---trees never need us, and
wind in its wandering visits us then goes away.
And we can't see it but we think there's a light inside
everything. Even at night it wants out and pushes
quietly, insistently on the wall with its tiny hands.
In the silence that comes flooding down from the mountains
a shapeless lament begins to press toward sound.
It can wait: it gains by every day
of being recognized. Without moving
it explores a way to be ready, and when
pieces of time break off it follows them,
alive in their being and unknown but true.
William Stafford
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