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.