Leather, cigar
box, lead pencil, tar –
relics left
buried that surface
through roots to
the fruit of ancient vines
so old and deep
the first winemakers
built their
vineyards around them
not daring to
disturb the earth,
ash, and kerosene
of their plots.
The Rhone’s
blistering winds
pound black
pepper and spice
into thick skins
that timidly soften
to the sun, the
heat coaxing from their core
jam and chocolate
--
buried valentines
that refuse to be forgotten
in the stony
soil, churned into dirt
and expressed in
tannins
thick enough to
chew.
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