April 23, 1994

Vines in foreground— linking hands
vines in background— almost foggy field—
small dribbles of ochre near edges of the dance.

A dirge— united in our deaths— our nakedness
— we are stopped in an eyeblink. Yes,
knowing dance is slow— not stiff.

Below, vines are cut off at the waist.
Did they die before their time, or at mid-life?
Await deaths of parents, friends like vines—

Our hands bleed like red wine
feel how it flows through us—
behind us dance thin vines

Reminiscent of stones—
all these forms like a lattice
on which some green some fruit.

Some flower may climb into sun through
quiet fog— the certainty of morning—
connected by life, death, rebirth.

In between us form triangles, diamonds
— little vines caught red handed in
the very business of life.

We watch tall ones touch hems of garments
as in praise. Wine does that too. Let us touch
— if only for an instant.

Great grey vines have misty veils of silver
hair heads bowed towards earth,
towards their descendants.