Little Rooms
I rock high in the oak--secure, big branches--
at home while darkness comes. It gets lonely up here
as light needle forth below, through airy space.
Tinkling dishwashing noises drift up, and a faint
smooth gush of air through leaves, cool evening
moving out over the earth. Our town leans farther
away, and I ride through the arch toward midnight,
holding on, listening, hearing deep roots grow.
There are rooms in a life, apart from others, rich
with whatever happens, a glimpse of moon, a breeze.
Youwho come years from now to this brief spell
of nothing that was mine: the open, slow passing
of time was a gift going by. I have put my hand out
on the mane of the wind, like this, to give it to you.
William Stafford, An Oregon Message: Poems, Harper & Row, 1987.
Today is Income Tax Day, or it was; back when life passed for normal. I mark today however as another Wednesday when I go to the Minnesota Unemployment website to check in. For the past year I had been spending 2-4 days selling clothes and helping customers at Christopher and Banks. I met lots of wonderful people, both fellow associates and customers who have become friends. Now, however, I'm on furlough while the stores are closed and I am uncertain when (or if) I will go back.
Why today's poem should make me think of work is just another quirk of a mind's meanderings. I'm picturing myself as a word, looking for employment. Where would I choose to go? In a conversation perhaps? But the job is brief and often inconsequential--blown away in the wind. In a newspaper marking important news, but then put in the bottom of a bird cage, or wrapped around potato peels and tossed out? Words in textbooks have an important job, but are seldom loved.
I think I would seek work in a poem, perhaps one awakened by William Stafford in the early hours of each day. Words in a poem do a lot of heavy lifting. There usually aren't many of them (133 in this poem, including the title) and they carry emotion and double meanings and their placement in a line is significant. Even the punctuation works hard (although it is sometimes its absence that does the work). Consider how well-beloved the dash was to Miss Dickenson--employed over and over again--
To appreciate the work that the words do in "Little Rooms" you need to spend a little time with them; read them out loud, envision the picture they are painting, feel the emotional tug. You might even want to tuck them under your pillow and pull them out when the moon is too bright, or your mind is troubled..."I have put my hand out on the mane of the wind, like this, to give it to you."
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