Now, since I've read a poem for my wife and a poem for my son,
I'm going to read one for myself.
You do that.
It's sort of a autobiographical poem, I suppose.
The occasion for it was a number of years ago, a few years ago,
I got a letter from somebody in my high school graduating
class, which was about 1888, I think.
And I don't know who this woman was,
but it was one of those form letters
and they fill in your name, and it said,
it wanted me to come to a reunion, the 100th, I think.
And it said, Dear, and it was filled in,
dear Richard Shelton, whatever became of you?
The tone was very breezy.
And it made me wonder what had.
I wasn't really sure.
So I thought about it a good deal.
And out of that came this poem.
And it is called, "Whatever Became of Me."
Because the moon comes straight up from the mountain,
like the hidden possibility of madness escaped for everyone
to see, and the wandering stars, who
are said to rule our lives wander on in darkness,
I feel the need to lie down among the stones and caress
any of them who have survived.
I always looked for what I wanted in the wrong places,
until the desert taught me to want what I found.
Now, on summer nights, I sit in the garden,
where it is hot and dry, and young stones grow like weeds.
When the moon turns a mad white face upon me,
having nothing to offer, I hold up my empty hands.
It is so easy to be happy.
This morning, a woodpecker woke me, practicing on his drum.
And all afternoon, cicadas rang like the telephones
I haven't answered.
I am what has become of me, a man
who lives in the desert, where coyotes
wail more skillfully than hired mourners
at the funeral of an Eastern King.
Where every night the stars, whose light
I have not earned and will never deserve,
return as if to keep a promise.
And even the rain, when it falls, is coming home.