poems

Rain in Chianti

It is raining in Chianti,

Grape pickers wait and rest,

Fingers blackened by

The dark blue harvest.

 

It is the fifth day

And near the end of time

To separate ripe fruit

From the Mother Vine.

 

On hillsides coursed

With green and growing veins,

The blood of wine flows forth

As steady as the rains.

 

When the cork comes out

We will taste the life within

And recall the hills and vines,

Where memories begin.

****

 

Advertisements
Standard