Nearly a month until summer,
and already a heat wave.
Ripples of warmth rise from the vineyard
like a mirage one sees in movies.
I imagine ghosts, spirits, spectres.
Twelve years I have lived among these vines.
Three pets lay buried, deep in the dust:
two cats and a much beloved dog.
I watch the wrinkles of air
and imagine the dry bones as a fine powder
rising heavenward, if there is a heaven
though I truly doubt there is.
If there is a heaven it is populated
by animals, and children, playing..
an adult free zone.
Not even a Mother Teresa deserves an
eternal reward, don’t you agree?
More likely we return to right all our wrongs.
Great clouds of dust rise in the hot breeze.
I can smell it. It smells like money.
Thin tendrils of springtime vines rise
heavenward, toward the sun.
They are rewarded for their adoration
with fat red grapes bursting with sugar.
Where once apple orchards thrived
rooting the soil, feeding children, now
Grapes ferment into dark bottles of money.
and the unfettered soil lifts and is borne
many miles into the spectre of a future
governed by the dry bones of sacrifice.