After a rain, blood drips from the vines
Onto upturned clover tongues.
Or so it seems to the old monk
Who tends the abbey grapes.
As he walks slowly
Down the glistening rows of fruit,
He stops and stoops
To lift a fallen branch,
Cradle it in his arms,
Return it to its proper place.
The harvest is a bitter blessing.
Grapes are crushed.
The wine of eternal life.
Like the sun’s unfailing journey
from east to west through the azure sky:
I will come to you and you to me
and flocks of inky ravens will fly
above the stubbled fields of wheat
which sprawl to the edge of the earth.
The wind will run with child’s feet
and dissonantly sing the birth
of winter. Rusty brown loam
will perfume the air and I will be
satisfied. A pilgrim come home,
rewarded for his piety.
My dream fades, leaves mist in my eyes.
This fool’s solace never satisfies.