By William Stafford

You will never be alone, you hear so deep
a sound when autumn comes. Yellow
pulls across the hills and thrums,
or the silence after lightening before it says
its names ~ and then the clouds’ wide-mouthed
apologies. You were aimed from birth:
you will never be alone. Rain
will come, a gutter filled, an Amazon,
long aisles ~ you never heard so deep a sound,
moss on rock, and years. You turn your head ~
that’s what the silence meant: you’re not alone.
The whole wide world pours down.

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