Bleeding Light

Long on the vine
As promise
For tomorrow’s glass
Blood red
Or mint-clear
Chilled or warm
It holds its pledge.

Grapes will burst
Ripe, sweet
Rich with life.
Bruised
Crushed
Fermenting
Wine for tomorrow
Will fill oaken barrels
With spangled slanting suns.

Press these rays into bleeding light
Sleeping in casks
Hidden in cellars
Dark and deep.

Wait for bleak seasons
When hope sleeps
Then tap the barrel
Fill emerald bottles
And drink.

Let pregnant time give birth
To savored suns
Long waiting for such a thirst as this.