When I Met My Muse

When I Met My Muse
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,
everyglance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.

—William Stafford

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