Vineyard

~Inspired from Frida's painting Henry Ford Hospital ~

The vineyard swells 

with sweet anticipation, 

stem cells wafting 

in the green boughs, 

inescapable, and springy 

like March's hysterical 

bug hum. 

The foggy ghosts of trees, 

standing sentinel 

in the stillness of the early hour, 

sketched out 

leaf by leaf 

by an artist's fecund imagination 

the kind of imagination

that lets us name the graves 

of stillborns. 

Under dawn's wry red light, 

I roam amongst 

the meandering lanes 

'tween the tangled vines

of full grapes, 

spying on the butterflies: 

the vibrant angels of death 

who shall steal away 

the essence from blooms, 

leaving them barren and old.

Author's Note

The image is an illustration by Owen Gent.

Reviews

[Patricia Wedel]

dear Moonie… your poem is very moving … I can feel the butterflies sipping the essence from the glow of beauty as the days become September... gently, Pat

[Unspoken poet]

This is a wonderful write, love the imagery you write with and the picture...
awesome!!

[Chris Shaw]

This is a such a good piece Moonie. We don't see you often but when you do visit you certainly make a mark. The graves of the unborn infants so very dear to me.

Chris

[Fairy Khan]

I cannot get over the allegory used in this one. Simply outstanding.

[Davidgeo]

Damn. You are nasty good at writing. Outstanding command.

And putting the image to the left, nice touch.

I'm a fan.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

again, simply brilliant allegory...the cells, the unborn infants...the blooms ready to reproduce torn to pieces and made sterile, unhappy and sooner or later just wilted with nothing to show for their lives.
j.