Time wants to show you a different country.
It's the one that your life conceals,
the one waiting outside when curtains are drawn,
the one Grandmother hinted at
in her crochet design,
the one almost found
over at the edge of the music,
after the sermon.
It's the way life is,
and you have it, a few years given.
You get killed now and then,
violated in various ways.
(And sometimes it's turn about.)
You get tired of that. Long-suffering,
you wait and pray, and maybe good things come
- maybe the hurt slackens
and you hardly feel it any more.
You have a breath without pain.
It is called happiness.
It's a balance, the taking and passing along,
the composting of where you've been
and how people and weather treated you.
It's a country where you already are,
bringing where you have been.
Time offers this gift in its millions of ways,
turning the world, moving the air,
"Here, take it, it's yours."
~ William Stafford ~
(The photos are of my mother, father and myself around 1947 at Harbor Gate housing in Richmond, California.)
I love this poem. I hope someone "gets" this poem like I did. Please leave your thoughts even if you don't usually comment. I would like to hear what others have to say about this poet and THIS poem. William Stafford was an American and a contemporary of my parents. He was born the same year that my father was.