Thesis

My thesis is that in a cold, dry year
The grapes are poor because they have no hearts,
And need the sun. Before the summer starts
Wine is conceptual, its growth unclear,
The fall, the future, built on hope and fear.
Time breaks up into seven hundred parts,
We celebrate the old vines, the old arts,
The old ways, old crafts, energy and cheer.

My lips are chapped, I'm ill at ease and drunk;
The room has stopped its spinning — that's the key —
But these persistent migraines stay with me.
I'm thinking of the grapes left in my trunk
With anemometers and other junk
I used to prove my thesis, cannily.