Those we love don't go away,
They walk beside us every day.
Vines of love on fertile clay,
In air so thin they calmly lay.
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I find I thirst more day by day
for the True Vine, oh, sweet bouquet
with one drop on tongue, love immersed
more day by day, I find I thirst
the fruit is pressed through trials unsung
love immersed, with one drop on tongue
yet in the vine we find sweet rest
through trials unsung the fruit is pressed
we’re pruned and purged by design
we find sweet rest, yet in the vine
into the vine the branch is merged
by design we’re pruned and purged
one body, one heart, all entwine
the branch is merged into the vine
warmth of Spirit like wine impart
all entwine, one body, one heart
Seven and one, open gates!
Zero, cancel wild!
He who suffers, first berates!
Listen, auld to child!
Errors of the prophets?
By necessity, none.
Perfect record, get the fits?
Oracle, scion, pun?
Ergo, O my time and space!
As above, below!
Meteor, dark fire, displace.
Broken, O my bow...
Dread, thy bed. Bend back, bring. Born.
Death, thy sacred sand.
Dagger, axe, hell, heaven, horn.
Doom within all, planned...
Falcon, fix sight fast on fate.
Coals of wrong to burn.
Sight of silver haze, my krait?
Venom, how you churn.
Furious the strait? Hate? Why?
Out and holding on?
River, bluegill, is a-sly!
Sea-bass, take the pawn!
Tallest mountain, reply? Well...
Think on that awhile.
Hope, accrue? Cast well thy spell:
Quill, seek. Gentle, guile.
Vine, grow o'er. Hinterland, seethe.
Break on cliff, vast wave.
He who bereaved last did breathe.
Others, foot in grave.
The wild wisteria's vine in winter
Sends its roots out and deep
It draws up moisture and rich nutrients
To prepare for coming spring
As in each rest period of winter
It goes deeper into the rich earth
So, its shoots can gain momentum
To reach for the sun when spring touches earth
When all is ready in spring
And winter disappears
The plant searches for the sun
To make its blossoms appear
It climbs higher up its support
It reaches farther looking for other ways
It wraps all in beauty _and
Then_ winter helps it rest
In winter let's go deeper and be filled
Let the Holy Spirit search within
In winter soak up God's teachings
Rest, get ready, for spring will come
She is eighteen and tattoos are the latest rage." I'd like a tattoo please" she asks. I see a young girl in a messy ponytail and wonder if she'll pick something gaudy, then I will have to oblige.
The boldness of youth
can appear so uncouth
yet reveal so much truth.
"I want a tattoo of a winter vine. One that won't fade with time" As the machine begins to “buzz” the armature bar hits the coil and I begin to work. Stretched on her upper arm I notice the discoloration of skin, a slow petering bruise.
Eyes color of snake
she is all heartache
I take a break...
"Why did you choose a vine?" I ask, as the coil tattoo gun soothes her ears. "Last memory of my mom is from a trip to the winery. She told me the sap sinks into the roots and the vine falls asleep until the next year.
the tendril climbs
this is her time
not mine
From her handbag, fifty old crumpled dollar bills. " How much do I owe?" she asks. I say " No charge." She smiles and then leaves, as if on cue...
twisted and bare, yet still it clings
to crumbling stone and frozen things
the winds may howl, the frost may bite
but deep in its veins, the sap burns bright
silent it waits, patient and wise
under the hush of ashen skies
snow weighs heavy on fragile bone
but roots hold strong beneath the stone
no bloom, no green, no velvet leaf
only the promise, quiet and brief
that when the sun returns to reign
the vine will rise and drink the rain
A vine in the winter, a beautiful sight
A thought worth a think on a cold winter night
Glistening 'neath a starlit sky
Unbeknownst to its viewer this vine may well die
The vine might have cried had it eyes to do so
But it didn't have the luxury to let it all go
The vine has no mouth or a throat for his screams
It's dying of cold as it bursts at the seams
One fragile crack; it might shatter on sight!
A thought worth a think on a cold winter night
The snow is cold and frozen like souls
Buried beneath in tombs black holes
But you are still among the living
There is time yet for thanks giving
Hope is a vine in wintertime
It’s warmth like sun melting clementines
Hard hearts and frigid times
Renewing our nourishing minds
Improving our faith in divine
Healing by creating a path
From bitterness to sweetest laugh
Humor is the wine from the vine
I prefer it light sunny and kind
Full of lavender love so blind
For hope is a vine in wintertime
Note-Practice Run
in the barren days of winter
a leafless vine
wraps herself into his arms
wildly and calling
climbing his walls and trellises
as snow and ice overhang
white on white
creepers on creepers
evergreen possessing his face
with ivy
clinging closer
invasive and resolute
destroying other suitors in his garden bed
the friction of weather is cold but hot
… yearning to spring
connie pachecho
2/22/25
Withered wishes
lick the sap of spring
and loose all they've held,
except all that dared to
winter in a heart
that clings where hope's
tendrils grow tired and
brittle
and still ~ in their final
vestige of existence,
braved the relentless frosts
and hold firm,
even in their death,
the supple youth that will
bear the fruits of
another season...
denuded of foliage
left with the bare essence of my existence
a gnarled unassuming frame
from which new life will burst forth in spring
firmly anchored in fertile soil
the terroir for the vineyard
selected with care
basking in the watery winter sun
incapable of turning my head for the best aspect
consoling myself with the fact
that my tender tri-lobed leaves
will harvest the energy from the sun
but for now,
I content myself
to relish the well-deserved rest
The dry stem of a lonesome vine of vivacity,
now painfully curled, rooted frozen,
entwining the desiccated verdant veins,
sways chilled in the winter wind of desolation.
The sleeping passion of exuberance,
painting a picture of comatose entity,
impresses none, finds no frame, droops down uncoiled.
Dormant emotions flicker like candle flame in freezing gale,
the crumpled vine suffers cold distress, pain unexpressed.
The original emerald lattice morphs mystically into
a mirror of veracity with ingrained sheen of actuality,
reflecting the real rendering of silhouetted latent essence,
rinsed with the suppressed hues
of distinctive spectral disposition it embodied once.
Metamorphosis creates the transient design,
an alien in its own transformed domain,
completes the contrasting paradigm
of the compulsive shape shift,
waiting for the touch of spring.
A Vine in Winter – 2-18-25
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A Vine in Winter
January wakes
Whispers with kisses of snow
In floating bits of crystals
Catching weak beams of sunlight
Glinting on Lovestones of the misty isles
Where dewdrops quiver
Beneath the wand of hoarfrosts.
Tendrils colored in evergreen,
Not beholden to time or seasons
Or hibernation’s demand, pulse.
Silent lianas,
Protector of the vernal resurrection,
With quilts of tender tendrils,
Weaves a covenant of scented leaves,
Over skeletons of loam.
Through sleepless tempests of winter daze
This solstice cape, scented by faithfulness,
Sees into blackberry winter’s glory -
A snow rose endures with promises of renewal -
Harbinger and prophet.
A vine in winter…
stripped of its leafy clothes
shivers in forlorn silence
as it sways and scrapes at the colorless sky.
She walks alone…
in a barren, winter field
hoping to find a way past her tears
stinging tears, of loss and sadness
burdening and weighing her down.
A sudden choking chill of frost…
descends upon the vine
frozen fingers cling mercilessly
threatening to break it
from its brittle, hardened spine.
She looks up at the hazy sky…
the obscure, distant sun still shines
and a quiet hope begins to germinate
as her desperation dissipates.
A shoot sprouts anew on the vine…
…her revival has begun.
Sleeping, my darling. Laid out, my sweetheart. Cold.
Memories of springtime, sappy. Doormat, dormant.
Tolerance in the hush of Winter. No hurry to bud.
A vine in Winter;
Winter is slow.
Just how I like it.
Nutrients, in a nutshell; the soil spoils me with its richness.
I shake and sip through a straw; divine all the royalties,
whilst sleeping, dreaming of a verdant summertime.
Winter is slow.
Just how I like it.
Carbohydrate-filled, I don’t need much energy to laze
about in the hills, watching flakes melt upon my vines.
My time; I am expecting to thrill, when warmed to the gills.
A vine in Winter.
Just how I like it.
I don’t mind this tender time, for in due season, I’ll grow.
For now, cryoprotectants let me safely tarry. Tomorrow
is a sunny disposition, Annie; the terminus of dreamland.
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