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Painting Wine
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2005 The clap of heeled boots
On fresh-layed pine floors,
kept time for the revelers
as they swayed in the doors.
To the pick of apt fingers
as the washboard was strummed,
begged crickets to harmonize,
sing their ballads of love.
And so the fiddles were lit
and the guitar played down low
in time to the flicker
of moonlight.
The sweet-grass sea breeze
pushed endings aside,
and we were drugged
by that late-summer night.
The beat resonated
skated across the floorboards,
to wind around the ankles
of youth with long limbs.
We wore our cowpoke hats
and denim vests-
to show we were proud of our ties
to tilled land,
our promises that we would return
to the seaside again.
A young man sat silent,
in the dim light of stars. He felt his jeans
were too clean
to brush the dancefloor.
And so he watched our toes
sweep, and make love to the music.
When the tempo slowed
I scuffed my way off stage, hat in hand.
One more barndance
whistling to a close.
I didn’t expect his manicured hands
would feel so calloused
As they caught my arm
in request.
So I gave him a dance.
Through the hay
our feet
painted wine.
