Motes of haydust rise and fall
With slow and grave steps,
Like servants who dance in the yard
Because some prince has been born.
What has been born? The Winter.
Then the Egyptians were right.
Everything wants a chance to die,
To begin in the clear fall air.
Each leaf sinks and goes down
When we least expect it.
We glance toward the window for some-
Thing has caught our eye.
It’s possible autumn is a tomb
Out of which a child is born.
We feel a secret joy
And we tell no one!
From: Eating The Honey of Words. New and Selected Poems
by Robert Bly
Republished with permission of the author.
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