Highway 12
Vineyards march by
like vast armies in formation
preparing for intoxication
as I drive down into the heart
of the Valley of The Moon
and admire its mountains.
Vineyards recede mysteriously
into the spring mists of a dream
rising out of yellow seas
fields of wild mustard flowers
and old Victorian houses
are shadows in the distance
like leviathanic ghosts
watching over the land.
Vineyards and years of deep inspiration
Circumspection and centuries of art
or at least lots of drunken old farts
singing praise unto the grapes
and another excellent vintage
the cellars are filled with casks
and good cheer all around.
Vineyards appear like skeletons
graveyards exposed and haunting
pruned and leaf-ripe waiting
looking forward to the Autumn
and heavy branch-bending fruit
they recede into the spring mist
as I drive down the Highway 12
into the heart of the valley of the moon.
Hello, Glenn.
Nice poem. The great masters never get old, just better with age.
I remember your favorite comic book growing up was Dare Devil.
Around the time of your poem, I wrote a 12 page prose/poem to a girl, but I think she burned it. Or perhaps, I instructed her to burn it after reading? It was only to be read once and never read again, as if it never existed.
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