The high was still low.
In the shade the cold

was bitter, and when
the wind picked up–

Three arbors of grapes,
overgrown, neglected,

and some chipped
clipping shears.

What makes a return
prodigal?

A morass, deadwood, suckers,
shoots the color

of rust, dried blood,
arteries, and the ashen ghosts

of summer after summer.
Excise, and find

the form inherent.
To finish a thing, just one

thing, done
in its proper season

and sequence. A long time
coming. A bent knee in the snow.

It was the son, I know,
a muddled remembrance

and the low blue light
of a Northern winter day,

or barely not night. But the fruit
will set this coming year.

The vine will spring back,
the dormant sap, the roots below,

already there, I clear the air
so it can be filled anew.