I contemplate the year to come
It is always hard to cut away what must go.
Yards of sturdy grapevine, nurtured through the summer, a wall of green;
We celebrated the harvest, and I savored your sweet fruit.
Then your colorful cloak was stripped away,
The ground froze hard, and you were left a skeleton.
Some canes will be more fruitful than others.
The biggest canes are not the best. These must be cut back to spurs.
Their vigor may yield future canes, but they will not bear well this year.
The canes that grew pale, or narrow to a sickly end—these all must go.
Medium-sized canes, blushed rosey purple by the sun.
Strong, yet supple to bend to my will without cracking.
These canes, cut just right, will bear the sweetest fruit.
The best buds must be carried forward.
My reluctance to cut away what does not serve,
Will only overburden the vine.
Five pounds of pruned vines and seventy buds
Hold my hopes for the new year.
