by William Stafford
It is time for all the heroes to go home
if they have any; time for all of us common ones
to locate ourselves by the real things
we live by.
Far to the North, or indeed in any direction,
strange mountains and creatures have always lurked—
elves, goblins, trolls and spiders — we
encounter them in dread and wonder,
But once we have touched the far streams, touched the gold,
found some limit beyond the waterfall.
a season changes, and we come back, changed
but safe, quiet, grateful.
Suppose an insane wind holds the hills
while strange beliefs whine at the traveler’s ears,
we ordinary beings can cling to the earth and love
where we are, strong for common things.