The smoke plume gracing the mountain peak,
puffs, thins, spreads, across the western horizon.
The verdant green of the valley of the grapes,
blushing lavender to purple, the richness of a pinot noir,
a king’s crown and cape, on rusty rocky soil.
Vines strung between wires, crucified tension of dead and alive.
Dead dry grace for rodents running through blue porta potties,
while lifelines of water turned to wine,
amidst breaking firelines, making runs
up slopes, spotting hillsides across the river.
Fire and water fermenting baptismal grace.
Barbara A Meier is really just a farm girl from Kansas who now looks at Pacific waves instead of waves of grain. She teaches Kindergarten in Gold Beach, Or. She has been published in Metonym, Birds-Highland Park Poetry, Nature Writing, Poetry Pacific, The Poeming Pigeon, and Cacti Fur. Click here to visit Barbara at her blog.