Abandoned grapevines along the fence,
Snarled in their own freedom,
yield sparse, bitter fruit.
Prune your thoughts to the nub.
Cut a farmer, he bleeds water
and binds the wound
with borrowed money.
Women with hoes, so patient,
who walk the fields with heads bowed
as if searching, remind us
that we've all lost something.
Among the fountains of Europe,
none compare with deep well water
surging from a stand pipe
anywhere in the San Joaquin.
Some scud like clouds,
escaping to the north or south;
others stay put, their hearts
dug in like boulders on the hills.
Interstate 5 offers us four lanes
border to border, but only the back roads
take us where we need to go.
26