This morning the thrush's song
beckoned me into the woods,
my own kindly siren.
I knew Circe's warning,
the coming destruction. But
I went gladly, without
lashing or waxed ears.
Her voice pulled me along
the path,
to my demise. And indeed
I was thrashed against the
rocks of my grief, wrecked
on the sharp edges of my sorrow.
The hull of my Self was torn
apart- there was I lost,
among reeds and mud and
willows.
That which rose to leave
(for rise it did)
the woods was Nothing. A
resonant casing, a blessed ship
of sound-
the leaves, the brook, the robin.
Over the path back bent
hemlocks, their knowing
arms, feathery fingers nodding
softly-
home,
home.
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