What would William Stafford write
this predawn if he were still here
April 1st,, downtown D.C, 12th & K,?
Would he work from the view outside
his hotel window where traffic signals
and globe-like street lights are invitations
away from the city because on rainwet
sreets they shimmer iridescence, a slant
reminder of the pear and cherry blossoms.
Japan, again the terrible side of power,
after the war, after the earthquake, after all
I think he’d find solace in something small:
Like the young beautiful ebony toned
women representing me in the halls
of Congress and Boston Latin School.
Those delicate petals, promising Spring
Again, again I can follow his lead, praise
the small things, and despite it all, love.