05/23/2026
The vines are waking, slow and sure,
From winter’s sleep, from frost’s demure.
A tender green along each row,
Where cold once held the earth below.
The barrels rest in quiet dark,
While sap begins its first soft spark;
A patient stir in roots below—
The year begins to gently grow.
The air is sharp with thawing light,
With promises just out of sight;
And every bud that starts to show
Remembers what it’s meant to know.
So here we stand where seasons turn,
Where time and earth together learn:
That even after cold and rain,
The vineyard finds its life again.
