The Vineyard

His hands were always shaking.
Wings of bee on the flower cusp-

excited or ashamed. Or perhaps,

broken. His lips on glass, on wine.
Shattered. Scarlet as the grape.

Peace comes in many forms.
On many vines. In transitory pieces.

Splendid when its found.

It is the suffered trellis
anchored in the ground...

that dreams of dying.

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