I do not imagine
a trellised heaven,
an espalier of
flush fruit
sheared, manicured,
pruned
or woven
into twisted train,
against flanked stone
or flattened plane,
an ordering of drupes,
their crop confined
to measure, groove
or knotted line—
instead our vines
will bound the hills
unlaced loosely where
fruit wills
weaving through orchards
knitting the grasses
their juices spilling
into river splashes.