The Grove

Blueberries and vines over the fence

like wayward lines passing over the ridges and boundaries

and bleeding;

its skin holds the blood of the divine

and beyond it

the beige and tan fields swooping up and down

down in the valley floor,

the dry brittle grain,

exposed to the sun.

"One begins to wonder in times of greater discomfort."

The valley opens and closes for miles, 

only imagining its touch;

the distant ridge line

holds breathlessly still.

Its autumn leaves beginning to fall against the curtain

past the crimson red vines,

meandering through beside

the setting sun.

                        by Joseph Ostapiuk