As many of us face early evenings, a wintry mix, and even snow, relax and enjoy Jerry A. Scuderi's vineyard poems....
He takes us through the seasons, beginning with spring.
EMERALD RIDGE In Spring
Green, then an overwhelming sea of green.
Latent buds amass shoots then vines and leaves accompanied by a
cloudless blue sky.
Lost are posts, wires, and even the neutered ground below the
Grasping arms search to connect the now hedge rows of awakened life
Robins, catbirds, and wrens delight in this lush nesting haven.
Approaching mold, insects, and a scorching sun now arrive at their
Freckled with jeweled clusters, tangled with darting vines, dappled
with sunbeam seeking leaves disarray smiles contentedly.
Meander. Nestle. Grasp. Snip.
Over produced clusters, errant shoots, then cluster blocking leaves fall
at their old man's feet.
With harvest his thought, . . . Oneness blossoms again.
The vineyard in summer pictured above is in Maryland.
FERTILE RIDGE In Summer
A vineyard nourishes a woodland community.
Ripe jeweled clusters present sugars and siren flowery scents.
Pale green and brown, now, crunchy leaves smile in their delightful
Molds cascade. Insects invade. Deer wander. All indulge in these row
upon row of bounty.
The alluring fruit shatter then fall from a nudge of a fawn.
Wasps search. Hornets buzz. Yellow jackets dart. Bumble bees devour.
All alight, examine, submerge, and gorge on the torrent of ripe and
Robins glide. Cardinals swoop. Catbirds greet. Bluebirds caw. All feast
They strip one vine, then move to the next one, in avarian harmony.
Now, comes the winemaker. He snips. He collects. He buckets.
From this harvest of color, flavors, and aromas, he will make an
L i f e-f i x e r of S t r i f e.
I thought that you might enjoy Van Gogh's The Red Vineyards at Arles while we move towards autumn.
Abandoned Ridge In Autumn
Exhausted, drained, spent; a vineyard rests in the afternoon sun .
Petite, late season grape leaves glow with a delicate yellow green hue .
Row upon row of near leaf naked vines sigh after the harvest season .
Insects and an occasional bird scavenge the left behind, black, dried,
Winds complete the leaf stripping .
Grasses subside in their conquests .
The leisure season has arrived .
Contentment lures sleep .
Life giving sap descends into the earth .
Cool then brisk, chilling then freezing temperatures overtake the land .
A harried vineyard welcomes the neglect .
Another barren season approaches.
BARREN RIDGE in Winter
The wind seeps the landscape, subduing, bending, and bowing all in its
The earth, cold and desolate, displays her row upon row of spent vines
as mating spiders in
disarray . Up hill they run leafless and barren . Sentry posts, gray and
black, run down the land.
A full moon reigns in a glimps of blue, though a seam in the
A hawk circles for naught in a stripped land .
A hint of green in the grass soaked scape offers hope for life again .
The bald headed hillside is at peace, displaying a stark naked winter
The cold footed hill is a lifeless abandon orphan .
A resting sleeper awaits life.
Let's return to some of Monk's ballads as we imagine sipping wine at a vineyard.
Here is the ageless Barry Harris' version of "Ruby My Dear":
Jason Moran et al play "Monk's Mood." For some reason, though, this video is audio only:
With a different group of musicians, Moran plays "Crepuscle with Nellie":
Horace Silver wrote "Nica's Dream," but I thought you'd enjoy Wes Montgomery's version: