Even in the path
of greedy gatherers
who would salt the earth,

Your soul is
its own vine,
stable in pruning,
critical in careful grafting,

The vine
becomes distinguished.

Strengthened,
your soul face
still withers
in untimely heat,
withdraws in lack
of nurturing water,

Your soul body
climbs higher
in intemperance
to live in conservation

Is it only in
the spirit of the Gardener
why souls like vines
are planted?

Who plants vines,
creates a path, and
puts a lamp
at your foot falls?



Patrick Darnell