A new friend brought me here tonight. Into this bustle of writers where we are working alone or gathered in small groups, talking, laughing, sipping wine with others; gathering here from a 50 mile radius; our host tonight, fellow writer, maker of extraordinary sparkling wines, Larry Mawby.
It’s a picture perfect summer evening and poems are rising. Here it comes….
Dance of Soil
Vines rise on wire scaffolding
Pushing sunshine up green spines
and fruit is but a dream
sleeping quietly in the roots
I have seen this dance before on other continents.
Deep in the Barossa-
Strewn across the Andalusian plain
Spread boldly through the valley at the top of California
and here, today-
Teenage vines safely held in the heart of Leelanau
All dancing to the tune
of soil and fickle weather gods
After casting their magic-
some of this …some of that
Leaning air on wood and steel.
Around the world the vintners
wait to plunge
into the barrel’s heart
Breath held- until they catch the scent
Of devil’s feet and the sound of money burning-
Or rare bouquet of perfect wine-
Kissed by sun and fanned by angel wings.