Kim Stafford’s days have a rhythm, a routine.
Oregon’s poet laureate wakes before dawn. He takes a long walk around his neighborhood. When he returns to his home in Southwest Portland, he carries a cup of black coffee in his favorite chipped mug to his tiny writing shed in the front yard. It’s “about the size of Thoreau’s hut,” he says, “made of scrounged materials.” One of the walls is made of boards from the original Elephants Delicatessen, another with boards from a fence. The multi-paned door is from a barn sale in Camp Sherman.