Birth, childhood, adulthood, death – the annual circle
of life commences as winter’s water, nutrients, and life-force surge from the earth
through the trunk to the dead-ends of cordon arms, against the dead-ends of cul-de-sac
buds, and probe for an escape; and like a volcano with rising lava, pressure
builds, soft lava pressing, pushing, and after pruning, there are no long canes,
no branches for that flow to go and buds start to swell, imitating a pussy
willow’s furry catkins, the rising dome of a sleep-walking volcano – Marine helicopters
from Camp Pendleton circle above reconnoitering the growing dome – will Mount
St. Helens explode again? – until the inevitable happens: one pops – the first
pop of popcorn – pop, pop-pop – second and third rounds of popping as corn
warms over the fire – and soon there is machine-gun popping, chainsaw
weed-whacker-sputtering-engine of popping – pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.
Welcome to budbreak
in the vineyard. The first shoot emerges – a lonely shoot – a pioneer –
sparking a celebration among the vintners at the first sign of spring. (Beware
the grasshoppers – they’re celebrating too.) The first shoots of spring– the
first pops of popcorn– will give way to summer when small shoots grow into a forest.
A new spring.
A new year. A new vintage. Opening day. April Fools! This could become the best
wine ever. All contained within a tiny bud of a dormant vine.
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