It’s around this time
of year, every year,
she speaks to me
in words warm, autumn red.
she grows on her arms
Inviting, calling, drawing me near.
How I wish you never had,
Whispered so loud, that it made him mad.
O’ zinfandel-infused wind, that too
In middle of the night, when nary could come to rescue.
I came across four strange words,
Boycott Lettuce, Boycott Grapes.
Next to the words
Two backs, bent
but held up
by dangling arms, rooted in dirt.