By Annie Finch
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
fermenting wine.

Shining 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.

In the winding
of the vine
all our voices
yield and twine
around the year's
fermenting wine.

Yellow. Fall roars
down to the ground,
loud, in the leafy sun that pours
liquid through doors.
Yellow, the leaves go down

as the winding
of the vine
lets our curling
voices twine
through the long year's
fermenting wine,

glowing in wind and change,
the orange leaf tells
how one more season will alter, range,
painting the strange
colors of clamor and bells.

In the winding
of this vine
our voices stretch
from us and twine
around the year's
fermenting wine.

When autumn gathers, the tree
that the leaves sang,
reddening slowly, then suddenly free,
turns like a key,
opening air where they hang,

where the winding
growing vine
helps our tangled
voices twine
around the year's
fermented wine.


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