In the vineyard, you can wrap yourself in silence
As a sunbeam pours into the grape berries
Turning into delicious, golden, mineral dust
You can discern the faint dialogue between vine and stock
Witness their spoken narratives
Safe amidst the large, branching leaves
Beneath the canopy of the vineyard peach tree
That shares its fruit with the daughters of men
And their sons
No, there are no usurpers here to seize
The carefully tended vineyard of the poor
No, there are none who tear away the harvest
Of diligent growers with the torch of fear
No surveyors drawing lines with compasses and rulers
For a road cutting across Your vineyard
As dictated by the unchangeable plan of an arrogant city
At the height of the harvest, shouts ring out from the pickers
Happy songs overtake the clouds and soar alongside them
Hands and eyes touch discreetly
Eyes-hands-hands-eyes—and laughter spills forth like a downpour
Big steps and small, childish steps carry
Baskets of grapes to the overflowing vats
The grapes pour into friendship
Like glasses filled to the brim
With unfermented purple juice
For the quietude of the soul at dusk
And the calm of the evening air