Tuesday, April 18, 2017
there are thousands of ways to escape
[F]reedom always came nibbling my thought,just as—often, in light, on the open hills—you can pass an antelope and not knowand 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’mgone: Tell everyone just to remembertheir names, and remind others, later, when wefind each other. Tell the little onesto cry and then go to sleep, curled upwhere they can. And if any of us get lost,if any of us cannot come all the way—remember: there will come a time whenall we have said and all we have hopedwill be all right.There will be that form in the grass.
William E. Stafford.
April 18, 2017 | Permalink