There is a river of dark water
Drives the mill-wheel of my soul;
Turning the stones to grind these words,
For this thin bread, my meagre dole.
Fed by the turbulent streams that flow
From the high domed mountains of my heart;
Their summits hidden by the storm clouds
Piled against them, now that we're apart.
Clouds carried there on Autumn's winds,
From far tropic oceans of desire;
Bellied and heavy with unwanted seed,
Squalling rain on my hissing fire.
September's ended, and Persephone has gone.
This patch of earth prepares for sleep;
Winter comes on, and in her stealthy skirts
She brings her mantle, quiet and deep.
But the harvest is home, and in the sacks,
Tho' much leaner than in other years;
And the flour that my fingers gently sift,
Seems to me like powdered tears.
The sluice is closed, the old wheel stopped.
The millings done, there will be no more;
For the winnowed husks that held my heart
Lie scattered on the threshing floor.
