Wine Country Autumn
Gold lies strewn to the horizon and beyond
As if some careless godling
Turned out the divine pockets and
Let the doubloons tumble where they may.
Fields of gold burn, lustrous in the westering sun
As evening settles ― but not for long.
In just a week or three, the next rapacious wind
Will gambol among these vines and loot the hoard
Till bare wood alone remains,
Enduring winter’s ire with never a hint
Of the transient splendour that was
These fields of gold.
