When the Vines Burn Red In Winter

The vines blush rust beneath a silver hush, amber veins curling toward sleep. Leaves loosen their grip with a sigh, drifting like forgotten promises onto dampened soil, where the scent of earth rises— wet bark, crushed grape, a whisper of rain not yet fallen.

The air thickens with stillness, a hush that hums in the hollows of trees. Branches bare their bones, naked and noble, reaching skyward like old prayers.

Light fades earlier now— not in haste, but in reverence. It lingers on the ridge, soft as breath on glass, then slips behind the hills with a final golden glance.

The wind has changed its voice. No longer playful, it speaks in low murmurs, nudging the last persimmon from its stem, brushing the vineyard rows with fingers cold and kind.

I stand in the stillness, boots sinking into softened ground, watching the vines surrender. Not with grief— but grace.

The season turns, not with fanfare, but with a quiet knowing: a slow exhale, a gentle dimming, a promise tucked beneath the soil to rise again.