In ruined vineyards,
It is possible it is better to be alone,
Es possible esta mejor ser solamente uno,
hiding insecurities and unchanging lacks of judgement,
beneath the heavy hair of wanton vines,
between the sighing rows of perspiring leaves,
escaping the lucious desires of grapes begging to be picked,
mingling inside the mouth- the jaded
richness of old wine and
the bitter sour of new wine that will never be pressed.
Nothing is beyond the imagination of tastes,
Even the dying man- condemned-
salivating his solitary last moments away
in recall of divine repasts,
and vintages too pregnant with joie de vivre
to be forgotten.
Acres of sunflower heads
dried of their crowns and beauty,
food for crows and old women,
fit companions enough for the
shadows that stalk the sunset,
lengthening their presence toward the silvered olives,
sinking low into soft chairs,
in the days when
nothing is left to be done,
all consigned to the care of the seasons,
Es possible en la nieve lavarse.
Es possible en la lluvia dormir.
This was written on the train between Rome and Florence, as we passed miles and miles of vineyards and sunflowers in Tuscany, and one vineyard in particular was left in ruin...which I only glimpsed for seconds at 225 mph. But that is life, after all, going by so fast, and some of it in ruins.