Might as well sip some wine
Stay a while, says he of vine
The one who rests, rotund, clusters
Of life-giving fruit at his ears
Wagging his finger in invitation
Through the smoky spice reds
Through the crisp apple whites
His is the image of the fertile valley
Full of dense foliage and earth
As dark as starless nighttime.

[Russ Cope write frequently on blogs.  His work has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and Mount Parable.]