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Or workers built an antenna- a dish
aimed at stars- and they themselves are its message,
crawling in and out, being worlds that loom,
dot-dash, and sirens, and sustaining beams.
And sometimes no one is calling but we turn up
eye and ear- suddenly we fall into
sound before it begins, the breathing
so still it waits there under the breath-
And then the green of leaves calls out, hills
where they wait or turn, clouds in their frenzied
stillness unfolding their careful words:
“Everything counts. The message is the world.”
~ William Stafford
2012-08-15 19:35:13