At Gundlach-Bundchu Vineyards
lost etudes resurrected at sunset
mid-summer over 100 years later
the viola sings a cello song.
The pines at the edge of the vineyards
stand at rapt attention.
stand at rapt attention.
The chickens tail up. We eat grapes,
drink Pinot Noir, admire the bouquet,
the darkness of pine needles
enters into the equation.
enters into the equation.
The combs of chickens against oat hay
blood of poppies. The Valley of the Moon
undulate below us. Vineyards in full leaf,
like wild frozen dancers
caught in the gyrations of music.
blood of poppies. The Valley of the Moon
undulate below us. Vineyards in full leaf,
like wild frozen dancers
caught in the gyrations of music.
Pinecones punctuate the grass.
The last blossom of sunlight on her face
as she plays the final note.
The last blossom of sunlight on her face
as she plays the final note.
We are always students
learning the path of the notes.
In the distance, deep growl
at Sears Point Raceway,
is like a beast in the belly.
We read Neruda, Vallejo, and Tu Fu
at the Dead Poets Society reading.
The fog rolls in, we, in summer dresses
shiver, as Arthur reads an Eskimo poem
about words and magic when the animals
and people were one thing.
Undulating vineyards like frozen waves
as if the ocean forgot to move along,
and was caught poised, midflight
from the farthest Pacific shore.
A horse whinnies, house lights
wink like misplaced stars.
Windows and the suicide of light.
Death again rides the parameters of the field,
the aerial ballet of the bat
We read poems until the light is done,
then we say them from memory,
then, when that fails, we sing them,
as if the very words of the dead
could bring back the sun.
We become silhouettes
The ridges, like the arms of a dream
gather up the songs, a bouquet of words
and we come undone
in the Valley of the Moon,
learning the path of the notes.
In the distance, deep growl
at Sears Point Raceway,
is like a beast in the belly.
We read Neruda, Vallejo, and Tu Fu
at the Dead Poets Society reading.
The fog rolls in, we, in summer dresses
shiver, as Arthur reads an Eskimo poem
about words and magic when the animals
and people were one thing.
Undulating vineyards like frozen waves
as if the ocean forgot to move along,
and was caught poised, midflight
from the farthest Pacific shore.
A horse whinnies, house lights
wink like misplaced stars.
Windows and the suicide of light.
Death again rides the parameters of the field,
the aerial ballet of the bat
We read poems until the light is done,
then we say them from memory,
then, when that fails, we sing them,
as if the very words of the dead
could bring back the sun.
We become silhouettes
The ridges, like the arms of a dream
gather up the songs, a bouquet of words
and we come undone
in the Valley of the Moon,
7/28/1995
Gundlach-Bundchu Vineyards
Sonoma
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