A Poem by Eric Rawson

The farmer cuts the vine to check

its reckless behavior, bends the

branches until they root. Some men

beat their children. But violence

is not guidance. Release is not

the same as saving the crop from

itself. More true for poetry,

in its anxiety to roam. Even

more for friendship, which grows too big

then too heavy. In the good years

the grapes are aggressive but the

champagne is disappointing, like

the noise and heat that fail to turn

into love after all, like a

wilderness that will not stay put.