With harvest time now months ago
and fallen leaves long whisked away,
a grapevine seems to suffocate,
its barren limbs a sad display,
a remnant of its life before.
A passerby might mourn the loss,
remembering the green of spring.
For now concern would be misplaced
as dormancy will keep the sting
of winter from its living core.
If only humans had this lapse,
protection from these hardened times,
a dormant season sans the pain
of money, love or social crimes,
of life too tortured to ignore.
Alas, the vines know fully well
that warmth will soon awaken roots.
As slumber ends the green will find
recovered leaves and growing shoots,
a vineyard's luscious spring decor.
Jack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana.