Vine

a wandering metaphor

Vine stretches,
Gnarled fingers searching for moisture
Eeking out those precious drops
So scarce in the flaming soil.
Each little root, every growing particle
Is desperate for damp, cool, dark.
so they go deep, deep,
down into the earth,
silent beneath the sun-scorched rows.
And at last they find it- their oasis of dirt.
Wet, and full of life.
The careful shoots, the grizzled anchors
All exult in this paradise of mud.
The southern sun is far above,
Beating the foolish leaves,
But down here, deep down here,
The real plant is found,
Rooted tight, rooted firmly in,
Soaking in the slimy soil.
And up, up, up the plant
The treasured nectar slowly climbs,
The grapes waiting in the quiet buds
For their triumphant release.
At last, they burst upon the world,
And drip heavily from the plants,
Laden with promise and frothing juices.
The stretching vine knows not the way
It imitates our life.
The striving for perfection,
All of us searching for that slimy soil
Bearing such varied fruit.