Tag Archives: East Bound

ODE TO EMPEROR GRAPES

 

 

                              I am growing downward,
                              smaller, one among the grasses.

                                                            – Wendell Berry (“Thirty More Years”)

Irrigator until the end,
the vines were his children,
more easily trained than those
               of his flesh.

Water flowed in furrows,
slowed to soak with checks,
his art with a hoe stretched
               across eighty acres.

Quixotic silhouette against
a rising or setting sun,
swashbuckling overshoes,
               hoe in hand,

he found peace deep within
his vineyard rows, red-seeded
table grapes, long ago dozed
               for citrus on drip.