These grape clusters clinging to vineyard limbs,
cresting and flowing out like sea-green founts,
form dark, mauve-shaded hearts, their outer rims
bulbous at top, narrowing to curled points
at base. Leaning my ear to dew-glistened
pericarps, I try godlike to fathom
these night-purple concords. If I listen,
perhaps I’ll sense their deep-seeded rhythms
carried up from the earth. Maybe then I’ll
absorb the pulse of healing origins:
how resveratrol aids my blood vessels
while cancers fall victim to psoralen.
I’ve read research papers of scientists.
Yet these vineyards enfold fertile secrets.
Roger Armbrust
September 8, 2007
