When I find time to meditate
to write a line or share a verse,
upon the vine or on the grape,
to concentrate upon the dirt,
surrendering this lovely grape
tenderly nurtured on the vine
in vintages of earthy brew
delightful, deliciously grown,
this mortal milk of mother earth.
Yet, blank this paper facing me
and blank the face, this paper sees.
Sees this poet's blank paper dreams.
Pen and ink, my bridge to paper,
this bridge to cross, my destiny.
This cross I bear, a word my key.
The new key I seek all of the time.
A time lined with appled orchards,
on a hill lined with grape filled vines.