“Pruning, a pause,  a wine, a rock and me.

The look, curious, looking to find the slopes.

Reds, greens, yellows, blues, ochers, earths,

are home to hairstyle vineyards and twisted olive groves.

I can just close my eyes and listen how the wind brings silence.”

“Rosemary, thyme, cold mountain air,

sunbeams clinging to the summits,

desperate, as if wanting never to leave.

Each has a special place,

a place where you can be with yourself. This is mine.”

“Pruning, a pause,  a wine, a rock and me.

The look, curious, looking to find the slopes.

Reds, greens, yellows, blues, ochers, earths,

are home to hairstyle vineyards and twisted olive groves.

I can just close my eyes and listen how the wind brings silence.”

“Rosemary, thyme, cold mountain air,

sunbeams clinging to the summits,

desperate, as if wanting never to leave.

Each has a special place,

a place where you can be with yourself. This is mine.”

“You feel the cold dawn of a spring day,

the sky tell us about heat which is looming.

You get to the vineyard, caress plants, they are waking up.

Soon will come the shoots, then the fruit grow and mature.

Harvest is coming, and with it the first wines. A gift, again.”