The Call Away by Robert Bly

The Call Away

Robert Bly

A cold wind flows over the cornfields; Fleets of blackbirds ride that ocean. I want to be out of here, go out, Outdoors, anywhere in wind.

My back against a shed wall, I settle Down where no one can find me. I stare out at the box-elder leaves Moving frond-like in that mysterious water.

What is it that I want? Not money, Not a large desk, not a house with ten rooms. This is what I want to do: to sit here, To take no part, to be called away by wind.

I want to go the new way, build a shack With one door, sit against the door frame. After twenty years, you will see on my face The same expression you see in the grass.

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