On your small piece of land,
you have planted
and replanted your vineyard.
Cultivating the earth
has been the only skill
you have ever mastered.
And yet, after Spring,
when the rains come again in Autumn,
never have your vines produced a yield.
Discouraged, one year,
you let the earth rest.
And planted again the next.
That year you ploughed the wetted earth of Spring
with furrows turning over underneath your souls
exposing worms to whom you’d ceded ground.
When rains were not enough to bring them up
to where the light would send them gnawing down,
the darkness falling with the Autumn wind
came with the empty winepress that you’d known.
The year of worms that you then trod upon,
the prior season’s labor lost to them,
your souls became the light that made worms flee
and in the burrowed furrows of the soil
you sowed the seeds that brought you to your knees.
Now, branches of the vine you died to grow
are branching unto yields a hundred hundred hundred fold.