The Country at the Turning

Beyond the bounds of autumn's reign,
where summer's golden fires grow dim,
there lies a land no chart has held,
no crown has claimed, no road has named.
Its mountains wear the mist like mail,
its rivers bear the fallen gold.

☙ ❦ ❧

October is that elder land,
where roots remember what was lost,
where stones retain the names of kings
whose halls have fallen into dust,
and all who cross its wind-worn hills
must hear the law of leaf and seed.

☙ ❦ ❧

I came beneath the copper boughs
when evening gathered in the west;
the rain lay dark on fern and field,
the wind bore scents of bruisèd fruit,
and deep beneath the sleeping earth
the hidden waters stirred and sang.

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There at the ford, where three roads met,
a woman watched the crossing-stones.
Her hair was silvered with the frost,
her lantern held a thousand seeds;
and though no wind disturbed her cloak,
the leaves about her turned and fell.

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“Who comes,” she asked, “unto the ford
where wandering seasons meet their end?
What name is yours, what grief is borne,
what sorrow seeks the farther shore?”

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I spoke my name. The river stirred;
its waters climbed the weathered stones,
and from beyond the farther bank
came echoes out of vanished halls.

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“Then hear,” she said, “the elder law:
No hand may hold the passing year.
What cannot cross must here be given;
what here is given shall not die,
but take the road beneath the roots
where sleeping things await their spring.”

☙ ❦ ❧

Beyond the ford a cedar house
rose where the ancient roots ran deep;
its hearth lay cold beneath the ash,
its walls held words that would not sleep.
Upon the board, beneath the dust,
a letter held its silent trust.

☙ ❦ ❧

I knew no name upon its door,
yet knew the weight of what remained:
the cup untouched, the vacant chair,
the scent of smoke in fallen ash,
the words impressed upon the page
though never written there in ink.

☙ ❦ ❧

I took the letter in my hands
and felt its furrows through the sheet,
as though some hand had pressed too hard
to leave a truth it could not speak.
Outside, the river struck the stones;
the mountain shadows crossed the road.

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I bore the letter to the ford,
where frost lay white upon the sedge.
The woman raised her lantern high;
its sleeping seeds began to stir.

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“What must I yield?” I asked at last,
while cold ran dark beneath the stones.
“What hands have held and hearts have borne,
what grief has grown within your bones.”

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Cold water climbed about my feet;
the current drew the sand away.
I held the letter to my breast
and felt its silence through the page;
then opened both my trembling hands
and gave the paper to the stream.

☙ ❦ ❧

The river took the folded sheet,
its pale face darkening beneath
the weight of water, silt, and stone,
until no trace remained to see.
Yet deep below the crossing-stones
a hidden voice began to sing.

☙ ❦ ❧

The trees released their copper crowns,
the mountain mist withdrew its veil,
and where the written words had sunk
a tender shoot broke through the silt.
The woman lowered her lantern then
and left it burning by the ford.

☙ ❦ ❧

I crossed beneath the paling stars,
my empty hands against the cold,
and heard the river singing low
the names of all it could not hold.
Behind me lay the waning year;
before me stirred the sleeping spring.

☙ ❦ ❧

October holds no captive year,
nor bids the fallen rise unchanged;
it bears beneath its darkened earth
the seeds of what shall yet become.
And still the elder waters sing
where leaf and root and river meet:

☙ ❦ ❧

What cannot cross must here be given;
what here is given shall not die.