Vineyards under snow, civilized
rows, punctuation for a run-on landscape.
Our straggling vines look like veins
without a body, the blooms
we contain, of darkest blood,
clandestine first pressings.
Even at night the drifts are
pure white under a haloed moon—
why speak and spoil the effect?
Let a suspended particle be:
Ice crystal, brix, a word unspoken—
I’m learning to let a thing fall, or ripen