One mine the Indians worked had
gold so good they left it there
for God to keep.
At night sometimes you think
your way that far, that deep,
or almost.
You hold all things or not, depending
not on greed but whether they suit what
life begins to mean.
Like those workers you study what
moves,
what stays. You bow, and then, like them,
you know -
What's God, what's world, what's gold.
William Stafford
Photo: Peter Bowers