The Vineyard

Now is the fallow time,
The vines have been cut back
The leaves are gone and the 
Vine is visible and naked.

The ancient scar can be seen 
Of the grafting, down there where
The thick stalk emerges
From the dark Matisse soil.

Vesuvius ash has fallen even here, 
And sun and season, Life and death
Have enriched this earth where 
My ancestors have tended and weeded,
Nurtured and pruned.

The vines stretch outward from the stalk
Trained along the wires like
The arms of Christ on the Crucifix
Of the small white church that I see
On the slope opposite this vineyard

Row upon row of stakes stand in straight
Yet undulating lines hugging the contours 
Of this hill, reminding me of gravestones
Waiting for the resurrection when the leaves
Will come, and the flowers and the grapes.

The vines are naked now, save for one small clump 
Of withered leaves where a cluster of raisins   
Were somehow forgotten, to sweeten
And wrinkle with age. 

Now is the fallow time, and the wind is free 
To blow between the rows, and I can almost hear
The words: "I am the vine"
And something in me whispers in return:

I am the scion, for I have been grafted
Onto this landscape; I have eaten of the fruit,
I have drunk of the wine, and been washed in
The blood of the first pressing -
My roots reach deep in this rocky soil.