Racing tendrils, endless rows
Stanchion to stanchion, goes
Endless working, all the year,
At fall the harvest, tractor’s gear.
The fragrant sweets before the snows.

The harvest hauled, the workers out,
Evident presence strewn about,
A lunch pale at the rows end,
Marks the long path of workers sent,
Along the lines I hear them shout.

They cut and tie and mend and prune,
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