vintners from all across the land
come to try my exotic wines.

made from the blood of grapes
gently squeezed by women
whose feet are stained
by their loving tromps.

my vines lie fecund
from the rich loam,
aerated by the mens' hoes,
spirited by rain and sun.

passing vintners taste, know not
of the secret of fine wines:
that a taster's palate allows
the judgement of the vinery.

as they pass my land,
i'm wont to wave them on.
"don't stop!", my plea
watching them swill my fine wine,
and listen as they burp.

10/07/2005