In the vineyard
a grape is suckled
under the sun.
Hunched in a commune
of brethren.
It grew in a myriad,
each indistinguishable
from the others.
And this is a thought
about destiny.
A grain of sand
different than the dune.
One wave among the endless.
A bolt of wood
to be a violin
and not a door.
The first angel
born to man,
in a manger.
So I wandered
among the vines,
their bounty
to be crushed
in a seminal wine,
to titillate the buds
of a woman’s tongue,
but choose the sweetness
of unfermented sublimity.
Salute to a season,
its light and rain,
and the gnarled stems
of patience.
A planetary fruit,
of unsurpassed subtlety,
teaching me
how destiny,
chooses what it chooses,
to leave its poems
behind.