I glanced at her and took my glasses
off—they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
William Stafford, in honor of National Poetry Month
I cherished up to you will revicee carried out right here. The sketch is tasteful, your authored material stylish. nonetheless, you command get got an edginess over that you would like be handing over the following. unwell without a doubt come more until now again as precisely the same nearly very often inside case you defend this hike.