In the winding

of the vine

all our voices

yield and twine

around the year's

fermenting wine.

Yellow fall roars

Over the ground.

Loud, in the leafy sun that pours

Liquid through doors,

Yellow, the leaves twist down

as the winding

of the vine

pulls our curling

voices, twined

by the sharp year's

fermenting wine.

Glowing in wind and change,

the orange leaf tells

how one more season will alter and range,

telling the strange

colors of clamor and bells.

In the winding

of a vine

our voices stretch

from us to twine

through the long year's

fermenting wine,

When autumn gathers, the tree

that the leaves sang

reddens dark slowly, then, suddenly free,

turns like a key,

opening air where they hang.

the growing of

the winding vine

helps these tangled

voices twine

around a year's

fermented wine . . .

one of the hanging leaves,

deeply maroon,

tightens its final hold, receives,

finally weaves

through, and is covered soon.

Winding, winding

of the vine

opens as

our voices twine

around the year's
fermented wine.

Here is my crown

of winding vine,

of leaves that dropped,

that fingers twined.

Listen to the voices twine

around the year’s fermenting wine.

Holding past summer's hold,

open and strong,

one of the leaves in our crown is gold,

set in the cold

where the old seasons belong.

Look how the brown leaves stay

crowned by the fall,

held by the letting-go of day,

held by the way

all they can give is all.

And the winding

of the vine

makes our voices

stop and twine

inside the year's

fermented wine.

Bronze bellows through earth,

the leaves say,

and humus is changing ground and worth,

echoing birth:

all that will fall will stay.

Voices, voices

stretch and twine

in the winding

of the vine

through the slow year's

fermented wine.

Green and red are here,

orange and gold,

yellow, maroon and bronze, all near,

lost by the year,

lost, all that fall can hold.

Let the winding

of the vine

help our voices

weave and twine

into the year's

fermented wine.

Here is my crown

of winding vine,

of leaves that dropped,

that fingers twined.

Here are the crowns

to yield and shine

with another year's

fermented wine.

From Spells