Standing in the vines when the world

was up early, cut out of painted steel

bird calls rising up out of the quiet earth,

no wind to signify anything over the hill.

Vine roots deep enough to search the soil

minerals and sweetness to feed the grape.

Leaves holding the sunshine in long green rows

ripening the fruit for the autumn harvest.

Surviving frost, drought, mildew and wind

the verraison attracts the gathering birds

and soon the cheerful pickers punctuating

the rows,”this bunch is too good to crush”.

The grape sacrifices itself for mens revels,

we discard our cares and wear the mantles

of kings and clowns and judges, in company

with brotyhers and sisters and fellow travellers.