I am Autumn out of Summer's Death

Running through my dark halls and bright courts

and high gates you will reach the place

and walk in,

right through the middle of my heart,

into green forests throbbing in endless night,

over white wastelands pressed in deep ice,

through blue mountains humped at every northern horizon,

following every yellow river running west,

down into subterranean gardens,

veined gold, silver, crystal,

packed with emeralds, rubies, diamonds,

down to learn the deepest laws and first designs.


It is the third turning

into the somber harvest moons

which scatters flowers, leaves and dust before the wind.

I am autumn out of summer's death,

world granary,

bottomless basket lined with rushes and feathers,

orchids, oranges, all ripe corn;

navel stalk stuck with thorns, teeth, beaks;

a cord twisted with pits and pods and broken shells;

big belly, threshed, sifted, ground: bread;

breasts bruised, crushed, strained: wine.


-Meinrad Craighead-