In late September many voices
Tell you you will die.
That leaf says it. That coolness.
All of them are right.
Our many souls- what
Can they do about it?
Nothing. They’re already
Part of the invisible.
Our souls have been
Longing to go home
Anyway. ‘It’s late,’ they say.
‘Lock the door, let’s go.’
The body doesn’t agree. It says,
‘We buried a little iron
Ball under that tree.
Let’s go get it.’
From: Eating The Honey of Words. New and Selected Poems by Robert Bly
Republished with permission of the author.
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