Graydigger’s Home
by William Stafford
Paw marks near one burrow show Graydigger
at home, I bend low, from down there swivel
my head, grasstop level–the world
goes on forever, the mountains a bigger
burrow, their snow like last winter. From a room
inside the world even the strongest wind
has a soft sound: a new house will hide
in the grass; footsteps are only the summer people.
The real estate agent is saying, “Utilities . . .
easy payments, a view.” I see
my prints in the dirt. Out there
in the wind we talk about credit, security–
there on the bank by Graydigger’s home.
—————
The End
And that’s the End of the Poem
© Poetry Monster, 2021.
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