Gigi Bundschu Fernandez reads Barbara Bentley
Vineyard
Gnarled trunk twists from deep-set roots,
Yellow mustard crushes under worker’s boots.
Trellised canes welcome the Sonoma sun.
Buds swell. My senses stir. Latest vintage has begun.
Buds burst. Lanky shoots propel into the sky,
Tender leaves unfold. It’s a natural high.
Opposite the leaves, flower clusters appear.
Winds blow. My senses stir. Fruit is almost here.
Flowers release their cap, white sprinkles ground.
Fruit clusters set in a scrawny airy mound.
Roots suck spring water to the fruit’s delight.
Berries swell. My senses stir. Each cluster now is tight.
Thick canopy trimmed, extra fruit dropped.
Night fog cools the vines, summer sun is hot.
Check grapes and harvest at desired brix.
Berries crushed. My senses stir. Vintner gets his kicks.
Quiet vineyard, jeweled leaves glow.
Drop to earth under a screeching crow.
Naked vines slumber in wet winter’s cold.
Wood pruned. My senses stir. A process very old.
