A California Winery Blog

Ode to Harvest by Rose Moradian

Too much is never enough, I suppose. The golden light, the green to yellow, the purple heliotrope peeping thru the white picket fence at the end of the day. The noble faces of the sunflowers nod downwards to the soil to where they sink the seeds, to be revived or eaten by the birds, either way, it is all a part of the cycle. This is everlasting, this cycle. This is where life begins and ends, every day, year, and decade.

The heart shaped leaves, the triumvirate cross harvesting the opal grapes, deliciously sweetening with every drop of the suns ray. The shadows grow long; the silken stalks of Indian corn braid and the hulls shrivel to a silhouette, the lily ponds erupt in a blue explosion of lotuses, the birds spend their vacations south.

The rolls of hay and oats bounce with the anticipation of the October quarter, yet it is all very calm as the tadpoles snatch at the mosquitoes, the frogs rival one another in a chorus of madness and the owls march along the rows deftly enjoying the buffet of rodents.

The ponds pebbles slathered with ancient algae, dried and bleached like a horses tail, hides a haven of salamanders and the sandstone boulders that have built heat all day slowly release the diurnal fixation
into the ever clear soft and sweet night.

Never has a rosé tasted or smelled so dry and vernal as today, with solar fusion cascading thru the glass as it is held to the sunset sky, the beading of moist pearls like fog appearing with the onset of the suns good bye, golden red and begging to be drunk right now. This is it, this is the moment, and this is the finest hour before the harvest begins.

The scythes and coronas all working together, brass and brown, snip of this and a snap of that, falling to the ground in a surrender to the soil, and sacrifice to the grape. The work of the terrain is done, it is all heaven from here, acceptance of the holy heated sun soaring high like the buzzards that eat the remains of the dead, casting a shadow of elsewhere on the adobe known as the growing grounds.

It is on the honor of the earth that we bring upon ourselves this hard work. It is a necessary region of cerebral activity, the marriage of sweat and history, knowledge and skill, and endless bounties of satisfaction, this work of single-minded artistry labelled enology. This sweet perspiration is in anticipation of the calling of the sugars, the tannins of taste, the skins of inebriation, the stems of legs.

This harmony of nature echoes in joy, the readiness of a virgin at the wedding altar for her beloved these grapes to be picked with tender tactility, the firm pluck of a boy and the kindness of a man, simple in nature, profound in duty with the acceptance of honor, paid in due by the patience of time. Lighted with the efforts of last year’s bounty, lift the chalice high and enjoy the mighty! Written by Rose Keppler~Moradian September Third, 2006.

Rose Keppler-Moradian Gardener/Poet