Memory of Heaven

On earth we loved the waste of orchard, those branches,

Propped up with two-by-fours, tending earthward,

The wealth of windfall having little way to fall,

The rot rotting, the bees barely heard.

How easily romance turns here to logic,

To an attitude almost classical,

To a fondness for ruins, for those well-worn stones

Toppled, but still architectural.

Yes, in our father's house there are many rooms,

One for each who makes the long, tiring trip.

The vineyards here bear a sour, rugged vintage.

Each of us is given just one sip.