Blood, iron and wine,
rusted clots and crushed skins of grapes that have been gorged before they burst
rustle in the grey vineyard plucked plain now.
Tell me that perhaps I was already beloved and lost the privilege
and gained the right to weep when the harvest was finished in an abrupt blaze of bottled bubbles.
Whisper to the soil mineral and light—
I have seen the rain.
I know my blood is iron.
© 2015 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.