Vineyards under snow, civilized
rows, punctuation for a run-on landscape.
Our straggling vines look like veins
without a body, the blooms
we contain, of darkest blood,
clandestine first pressings.
Even at night the drifts are
pure white under a haloed moon—
why speak and spoil the effect?
Let a suspended particle be:
Ice crystal, brix, a word unspoken—
I’m learning to let a thing fall, or ripen
OPTIONAL POETRY 
Beautiful.
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thank you!
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Spooky…downright creepy, and lovely. Both.
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Thanks!
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Wonderful, truly wonderful
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Thank you!
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An eerie yet quite exquisitely written poem.Good job!
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Thanks!
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Love this. You’ve got to know how to play a moment, and what follows resonates forever. Fall, or ripen. ~ P~
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I love the link you made between nature (vines) and veins, so haunting!
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Thanks, Lea! Once I thought of it, it was hard to un-see it
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