The river is famous to the fish.
The loud
voice is famous to silence,
which knew
it would inherit the earth
before
anybody said so.
The cat
sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him
from the birdhouse.
The tear is
famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you
carry close to your bosom
is famous to
your bosom.
The boot is
famous to the earth,
more famous
than the dress shoe,
which is
famous only to floors.
The bent
photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at
all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be
famous to shuffling men
who smile
while crossing streets,
sticky
children in grocery lines,
famous as
the one who smiled back.
I want to be
famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a
buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because
it never forgot what it could do.
Naomi Shihab
Nye, Words Under the Words (Far
Corner Books, 1995)
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