Abbey Vineyard
After a rain, blood drips from the vines
Onto upturned clover tongues.
Or so it seems to the old monk
Who tends the abbey grapes.
As he walks along
glistening rows of fruit,
He stops and stoops;
Lifts a fallen branch;
Cradles it in his arms;
Prays to our Lady of Sorrows;
Returns it to its proper place.
The harvest is a bitter blessing.
Grapes are crushed
Becoming
Wine of everlasting life.
