Vineyard by Hanna Stephenson

We traveled back to the winery,

In deep summer like every year,

In the twisting vines, we were only armed

With a headlamp and a pair of shears,

As I worked away for hours,

Far past the evening dusk,

Far past the rows of grapevine tows,

The scent of fires burned their musk.

In a blackened forest was I,

Dust alight by my lamp alone,

I paused my harvest for a moment,

For I heard a song of home.

I followed it farther in,

Under the sliver of moon,

I followed it farther in,

Abandoning all fruitful boon.

Its eyes glowed like my lantern,

Its hair attracted the moths,

And upon its midnight body,

It bore scraps of earthly cloth.

The world had grown ivy walls,

Its voice was mellow and good,

The way it sang the songs it sang, 

It held a love only sunset should.

Curled was the grapevine ivy,

Wrapped around its fingertips,

And I found myself now will-less,

When it set it against its lips,

Entranced by my brand new friend,

I listened to its words,

I followed it farther in,

This creature that was kept unheard.

I followed it farther in,

Under the sliver of moon,

And if you had heard its fire smoke songs,

You would have followed it too.