Vintage Napa Valley

My neighbour, the vintner, has an old stone wall
And over it eases in dark loose green
An ivy, elate with crimson each fall

As if, in a valley whose honour is wine,
Whose fields are ritual to the last grape,
Even the ivy, the visionless vine

Is whipped by a dream that cries in the stone,
Yield from the richness of your want,
Till in winey nimbus of its own,

In winefali of colour over the wall
The dry stem is fluid with coral and rose
And the first crush and most ruby of those.

I brighten my eye, I hold out my glass,
Poor in spirit, poor in thirst,
And still get more than my right of grace,

For if no grape hangs upon this vine
Yet sugars of excitement swell
In craze of vintage beyond belief

And intensity pours
from a falling leaf.