In the vineyard
Lineage matters, but thirst makes greatness
possible. Carried across oceans, these vines
have rooted on this shore, to live always
on the edge of death. The vinedresser prunes
tendrils and branches lifted in supplication,
rationing water so that the vines bear their fruit
in deserts of constraint. Now the globed
sweetness is crushed for you, the burst skin
returned to the earth, feeding tomorrow.
The wine in the dark oak waiting, rises at last
in the cup now lifted to meet this human thirst.
It sings this moment in the mouth of the living.