The grapevine waited for spring to finish
Lacquering the hill with emerald paint.
Crucified boughs forgave the storm
Like a saint forgets to forget the covenant
And waits to be forsaken.
Rain slicked the road with fate.
The ambulance pulled out its hair.
The Chinaberry’s fallen petals floated like open palms
In puddles moated by a tire track that sank each small pink ship.
Blackwings pipped the sky and swung through evening’s hem of light.
She lowered her dress.
Fog dripped like steam out of a chute,
Smoking up the vineyard while
Night avalanched and grew.
