Hours spent parting
the vines
in search of blossoms,
hauling the gallons
and slopping them
over bristling stalks.
A gross promise
of fertility.
Last winter, I dreamed
of red valleys stung
with growing lanterns,
a rustle on the wind.
But the vines are fruitless
and the air is still.
Still I bring the water,
thinking of lobes
of seeded, bursting flesh,
my hope the thing
that gets stronger
when unfed.
