That Form in the Grass

A Message from the Wanderer

Today outside your prison I stand
and rattle my walking stick: Prisoners, listen;
you have relatives outside. And there are
thousands of ways to escape.

Years ago I bent my skill to keep my
cell locked, had chains smuggled to me in pies,
and shouted my plans to jailers;
but always new plans occured to me,
or the new heavy locks bent hinges off,
or some stupid jailer would forget
and leave the keys.

Inside, I dreamed of constellations—
those feeding creatures outlined by stars,
their skeletons a darkness between jewels,
heroes that exist only where they are not.

Thus freedom always came nibbling my thought,
just as—often, in light, on the open hills—
you can pass an antelope and not know
and look back, and then—even before you see—
there is something wrong about the grass.
And then you see.

That’s the way everything in the world is waiting.

Now—these few more words, and then I’m
gone: Tell everyone just to remember
their names, and remind others, later, when we
find each other. Tell the little ones
to cry and then go to sleep, curled up
where they can. And if any of us get lost,
if any of us cannot come all the way—
remember: there will come a time when
all we have said and all we have hoped
will be all right.

There will be that form in the grass.

–William E. Stafford

This poem speaks to an exquisite kind of redemptive hope, one that is akin to the feelings I am carrying after a weekend spent with friends who have been with me for most of my adult life. Stafford’s image of a form in the grass is such a redolent metaphor for that moment “when all we have said and all we have hoped will be all right.” Blessed be that day.

Oh, and be sure to just remember your name.

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Jack’s Place Gang

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After felling a tree

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Jack’s Place, 2009

WIP
Inside, it’s a work in progress (like all of us)

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Stream view, from the rear of the house

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2 comments

  1. Deborah Barlow’s avatar

    VV, your take always means a lot. So glad it caught you too.

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