His mother named him Carlos, such a strange name for a Welshman. Perhaps she loved Spain. We said goodbye by a bed near a window deep with winter.
Summers heavy cloak hung
over fields of Goldenrod,
their long limbs reaching
out to mesh with spiky
leaves that sheltered
bundles of marmalade florets.
Their invasion of the meadow
met with merciless machetes
that hacked through unwelcome
invaders who hadn’t the courtesy to
extend a pleasant fragrance.
The trail led to an arbor nestled
in a stand of trees to a brook
trickling lightly through a trellis
where never ending appendages
wound and weaved through a
dense clusters of bulbous
clinging tenaciously to their host.
The scent of peppery earth stung
our nostrils and attracted white tail deer
that ravaged the vines of their treasure.
The old man snaked a garden hose through
the lattice to frighten them, a guise that
worked only to frighten astonished lovers
lingering at fertile ground, a sacred rendezvous.
Soon the clammy dragons of summer
breathed their fiery breath and
the skin of the luminous fruit burst
with the sweetest nectar and the old man
declared them ripe and ready to harvest
by means known only to himself
and his son.
Ruptured with a pestle and filtered
they were processed by their secret method
and stored in ceramic jars.
Sweet and crisp, underdeveloped
but heady and pleasant.
Rarely did my father materialize
from his travels once I had been
delivered for the summer,
somehow harvesting the grapes
invoked his presence like a lark at dawn.