April Cherries, Summer Vineyards

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The Sunday sun is spinning
cobwebs into shimmering silk
and vintage cottonwood.
We sit, singing songs of Chardonnay
and Merlot. Smooth tunes of
periwinkle and Patchouli.
It feels like one of those quiet
afternoons in July that drip
molasses and honey from
rustic windowsills of brick and barrel.
Breadcrumb trails and leftover
cheese line the crevices like
pixie dust and pirate hooks.
My hair is sticking to my
balmy lips; a light wind cradles the
vineyard hills – a mother and
a womb of grapes of purple and black.
Foot pressed bruises that
stain tongues and teeth and warm
the eyes and limbs.
I sit with my kin, my tribe –
we all have the same noses.
Shaped like cherries that nestle
together on quiet, July afternoons.

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