Et in Arcadia Ego

The evergreens haunt the vineyard’s margin, encircling the bare
Truck-and-backhoe mangled hill from whose dry crest I stare

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Across the lines of planted vines, in early spring; their dry
And lightening bark like chicken feet clutching at the sky.

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The gravel spread about their husks reflects in crystaled gray
The inchoate heat the season brings educing each new spray;

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And sour tar pearls dulled with dust bud on their fragile tendrils.
This is a time of promise and terror, an age that snares men’s wills,

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And holds their eyes upon the living leaf, whose veined underside
Is death, and on these mildewed stakes, where fruit to rot is tied.

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I too am here, it blurts in mud, it hums along the wires
Strung with notes of pinot noir, and gargles in the fire.

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The cold wind cuts in from the lake. The season soon will turn
And, in its humid forgetfulness, prepare a darker turn.