Friday, March 2


While the years were mine I walked the high country
with a thought for a friend: Somewhere, somewhere.

And I heard the wind in its desperate quiet
smuggling winter through the dark forest.

I saw leaves massacred in autumn,
and their places taken by the stars at night.

In all the world no place was mine
because I was driven like the other things.

But then I found the tumbleweed secret,
bounding along saying, "Where is my home?"

And the voices began to come at night,
warning, "We're lost—don't be like us."

So when someone is near I reach out for them,
knowing how far it is when you're alone—

How out in space you finally accept
what has to be: Anywhere, anywhere.

-- William Stafford

William Stafford