When the September vineyards are heavy with fruit,
In the shallow hills beyond
My town, I think about my days working at the winery.
Memories of autumn afternoons
In the cellar, tasting wine,
Migrant workers with dark tan faces
Drinking cold beer,
And the crush, with sticky berries
Drawing bees.
Meat and skin crushed to must,
Releasing odors of dark plums and wild roses
Staining my past
With bottled up emotion.
A vintage that has aged
And presses the question
Am I willing to tell the truth?
Memories on the shelf left unopened
Waiting for the right moment.
