By the Side of the Vineyard – A Poem
To the collective critic.
The critic lay dying by the side of an old vineyard. He was once mighty in appearance.
Passersby shook their heads, lowered their eyes.The boys showed no respect, muttered evil under their breath, could not be bothered to care. The old men would pause, attempt to offer assistance, but they too were weak, too faded to offer anything more than a kind word, a remembrance of better times.
The critic lay dying by the side of an old publication. He was once mighty in voice.
Those who hurried passed had mostly forgotten the words or never known them at all. A few, still lucid in their recollection, still vibrant in their affection called to mind the sayings that had beckoned them to follow. These eternal notes, written on paper, written in fields, etched in the memory of vintages.
The critic lay dying by the side of an old legacy. He was once mighty in honor.
In dust he lay, in memory of all that had passed him, in love, in hate, in compliments, in accomplishment. On his side, facing west, facing the diminished sun. In the earth he carved with a vine, “REMEMBER ME,” and then, he expired.
The critic lay dead by the side of an old vineyard. He was once my companion.
I stooped down low at his side. In his palm were words more sweet than he had ever penned, on a paper, on my heart. I wrote the words then, with my own hand, digging hard into the soil I scratched them into the earth, so that they would stay, so that they would be remembered. These two words, these echoes: “WE WILL.”
They critic lay beloved, by the side of an old vineyard.
Hey Wayne!
I am not generally a reader of poetry nor a commenter on blogs but I feel compelled to say how much I loved this poem!
You are full of very endearing surprises!
Jamie
Thank you Jaime, that is kind of you to say. I too am not an often reader of poetry, or commenter on blogs, ironic I know. I hope the best surprises are yet to come, for you and I both!