In the tasting room I ask for a bottle
of balance. Hill full
of porch swings. The girl behind the counter
tongues a grape. Slides
a glass of chardonnay across
the room. The men make their awkward
charm at her. Already my youth ferments.
My tired cities lie down in a barrel to oak.
All year I’ve been running
towards this place
where people grow green
as the hills. Birds sleep,
sweet in their excuses. Trucks hide
behind the corn stalks.
Now the earth holds
still for sunflowers to take root in her body.
Women with easels paint.
A red barn fattens
and I walk on, as they finish their work
Painting my shadow as it moves
through the unfinished light of the field.