The Grove

Blueberries and vines over the fence
like wayward lines passing over the rigids and boundaries
and bleeding;
it's skin holds the blood of the divine.
And beyond it,
the beige and tan fields swooping up and down,
down in the valley floor,
the dry brittle grain,
exposed to the sun.
'One begins to wonder in times of greater discomfort.'
The valley opens and closes for miles,
only imagining it's touch;
the distant ridge line
holds breathlessly still.
It's autumn leaves beginning,
to fall against the curtain
past the crimson red vines,
meandering through beside
The setting sun.

poem by Joseph Ostapiuk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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