The evergreens haunt the vineyard’s margin, encircling the bare
Truck-and-backhoe mangled hill from whose dry crest I stare
n
Across the lines of planted vines, in early spring; their dry
And lightening bark like chicken feet clutching at the sky.
n
The gravel spread about their husks reflects in crystaled gray
The inchoate heat the season brings educing each new spray;
n
And sour tar pearls dulled with dust bud on their fragile tendrils.
This is a time of promise and terror, an age that snares men’s wills,
n
And holds their eyes upon the living leaf, whose veined underside
Is death, and on these mildewed stakes, where fruit to rot is tied.
n
I too am here, it blurts in mud, it hums along the wires
Strung with notes of pinot noir, and gargles in the fire.
n
The cold wind cuts in from the lake. The season soon will turn
And, in its humid forgetfulness, prepare a darker turn.
