as the vine flows

twisted in the old wood,
the vine still climbs,
its roots deep in soil
that’s seen centuries pass.
Leaves unfurl with the same green breath,
casting shadows on stones
once warmed by hands
long turned to dust.

It gives its fruit
with no thought of thanks,
no worry for what comes next —
whether plucked by hands
that savor,
or left to spoil in the sun,
sweetness turned sour,
skin cracked by time.

Wasps circle,
drunk on what’s left behind,
while barrels stand ready
to turn juice into joy,
but the vine doesn’t care
for the fate of its gifts.

It grows,
because it must,
because the earth calls it upward,
year after year,
indifferent to who remains,
who has gone.
It knows nothing of loss,
nothing of gain —
only the pull of life
that moves through its veins.

Generations fall like leaves,
but the vine persists,
steady, unconcerned,
its purpose fulfilled
in simply being,
in giving what it has,
whether treasured,
or forgotten.

Listen to this song clicking here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOinboG4P9w