early april

a thousand miles of touch,
this white beard a scratch
in the bright snow...
now green tea falls clean
on a dreaming tongue.

No Praise, No Blame

What have the clouds been up to today? You can't

blame them, you know.  Their edges just

happen, and where they go is the fault of the wind.

I'd like my arrival to be like that, alone and

quiet, really present but never to blame.

And I'd never presume or apologize, and if anyone 

pressed me I'd be gone, and come back there

only some harmless, irresistible presence

all around you, like the truth, something you need,

like the air.  

- William Stafford