Rock art by Tim Christensen
After my friends' wedding,
we drove to Napa,
where locals worried
that unseasonable heat
would sugar grapes too soon,
a ruined crop
if not picked quickly.I didn't see a nervous Bacchus
or an apocalyptic Christ,
stately with destiny,
pacing the rows,
only a Caterpillar tractor
and two dogs.The highway outside our window
growled and moaned and whooshed,
not city traffic—dismembered tractors
lay still on passing flatbeds.During your afternoon nap,
I sat on the hotel porch alone,
watching full bins of grapes
trundle past, pulled by trucks.
Within the hour,
those same bins rushed by,
rattling with the satisfied emptiness
of the homeward bound.
I paced, still unsure of the way home.From the beginning,
our trip was your idea,
and you resented
the detour to the wedding.
You don't approve of
weddings.Sleepy, you joined me
on the porch. I pointed out
tangled vines across the street.
Tendrils' desperate clasp
holds them up
but too much entwining
chokes out the fruit.You said, "It will be years
before we know
what the heat has done
to this vintage.
But the weather bears
no guilt
for bitterness."Shadows marched across
the narrow valley
sealing it
for night.
