Mangled
A Tale from a Year in the Life of a Vine
Copyright 2021, Zachary Zundel
From my plot I have a view, of all the vines that make the Cru.
Majestic and athletic the packed parcel precariously postured. Divine. Removed from time.
We common vines can only dream of the cliffside crevices to which they cling.
When the harvests roll around come metal beasts that shake the ground. Grinding, gnashing, shaking, smashing. The mangling machines branch bashing.
They leave us twisted in a heap, our grapes stripped clean by the beat... beat…beat.
From this abuse the Cru are spared, too steep for metal beasts to dare. Instead, they send a swarm of men to carefully clip the cluster stems.
I miss my friend.
Raised among the emerald masses, She reclines.
One of the divine.
Not that long ago, secure in the greenhouse glow, our grafts still raw with scars to show, She potted next to me.
We spoke at length, we dreamed and drank, and every day we grew. Stronger, greener, smarter, leaner.
And then the culling came.
They strode the rows, and peered and pulled. Picking out the very best.
And as they neared, I could see, that just one spot was free.
And so, I limped and dripped and slumped and splayed upon the ground.
The pickers paused then plucked Her up, Her face alight and proud.
But that was then.
And now.
I cower in the greens,
hoping that She cannot see,
the mangled,
tangled,
me.
