When I Met My Muse in  General   

I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.

By William Stafford

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Other poems by William Stafford:

• A Ritual To Read To Each Other
• Across Kansas
• Allegiances
• Ask Me
• Atavism
• For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid
• Just Thinking
• Lit Instructor
• Notice What This Poem Is Not Doing
• Objector
• Remembering Mountain Men
• Security
• The Light By The Barn
• Thinking For Berky
• This Life
• Traveling Through The Dark
• Waking at 3 a.m.
• When I Met My Muse