A Poem, Just in Time (sort of) for Lughnassadh. :-)

[amazon_syren]

Spirit of the Grain

Standing, straight as a stalk,
Sharp as a blade,
Skin ripened brown in the sun

Long hair, in amber waves:
wheat white, corn gold, rye-brown,
Shifting in the wind

New shoot green, Her left eye,
Chaff grey-brown, Her right

In one hand She holds the scythe,
And in the other, the seed.

Under Her feet new grain lifts up,
And bows down before Her in death

Older than naming, ever-renewing,
Ancient as the prairie and the steppe,
The Buffalo Himself bowed down to Her,
The grain rising and falling at Her feet.