Knowledge

In winter the grapevine is a gray corpse:
withered, gnarled, twisting arms and torso in
a field of a thousand crucifixions.

In spring the smallest of green buds break the
surface of the wood, re-igniting a
long slow soft explosion of shoots and leaves
and clinging tendrils reaching everywhere.

In summer the vine's mardi gras of green
gazebos down to the ground, its swelling
bunches of plump sticky sweetness, pale gold
or purple, shaded in cool abandon.

In fall the harvest robs the vines blind of
their reason to live, their leaves wither to
dry orange-brown and wind-scatter crackling
till pruning amputates the useless limbs.

In winter the grapevine is a gray corpse:
withered, gnarled, twisting arms and torso in
a field of a thousand crucifixions.

In spring the smallest of green buds break the
surface of the wood:
No one taught them why, when, how, or what for.