the red vineyard

•

                                    —painting by
                                                    Vincent van Gogh

in the field rivered with red,
            field burgundy-dark, under the sun
        sulfur yellow hovering low,
            women in blue, fifteen, twenty, bend
 among the grapes,
     arms blue, legs and backs
        cloaked in blue,
  bend and rise, arms reaching, shoulders
        swaying, the field a torch
      of red, wild weave of movement. 

    along one side the sunlight spilling
  gold in the curve of a stream. in the depth
          of the water light mingles green
             and gold and violet.
    in the shallows a woman stands
            taking hold of a vine pole.
nearby in a watering trench, near
 the center of the canvas,
         a woman stoops with wide round basket,
           grasps drops of red.
further away the figure of a man,
          ankle-deep, midstream, hands in pockets.
over on land, middle distance, the land
       paling to yellow-orange, a man
          sits mounted high on a cart harnessed
    behind a single gray horse,
   waiting.
 in the midst of the sweeping shapes
          a woman stands in gray and white
   with plain gray umbrella —
          the faces are blurs, dabs of color,
        too far away, too small for detail. 

           a swarm of action, crowded with moving
          in the bright field. the field
 wet with flame.
           on the far side, away from the stream, 
        the plotted treeline, trees even-spaced,
  slanted limbs, hooked angles
   bent upward,
         cool and burning with blue-green,
 the row of trees receding into teal,
       dwindling to blots of purple.
           far away more human figures, more
stooping and bending, tiny
            in silhouette, almost
        too small to be seen.
 at the horizon two houses, yellow
     with red roofs. near the houses
          a lone tree knotted and smudged
         mud-green.
           and furthest away, gray with distance,
bare broken tooth outline, buildings
   and church towers of a town. 

the ripening ferment, the insurgent
       dance, the collective red power
    that gives life to the world.
         light slants across the autumn fields,
 seeds of light upon the spring soil.
there is nothing here that is not alive,
    nothing here that is not an act of beauty.
           the work of the burning day
        carries on, the sky a music
flowing green and gold over the land,
   the cool dew of the grapes
         sweet as a breath,
          the red warmth of the ground
         real as a footstep,
   thick as a hand.