I hear you bought a farmhouse <br />in Sonoma, grabbed it for a song <br />in foreclosure, and with a vinyard. <br /> <br />Had your fill of mergers and acquistions, <br />you told me in your last e-mail. <br /> <br />Had it up to here in the phony <br />intelligensia, the name-droppers, <br />the white hiphop singers <br />whose anger is based <br />on deprivation, <br />not rage. <br /> <br />Had enough of having too much, <br />you opined. Want to feel the squish <br />of grapes on your toes <br />and want to watch the vines <br />crawl toward the azure <br />California sky. <br /> <br />The jpeg you sent of the adobe <br />house where you will live <br />looked sad to me; looked, well, <br />foreclosed. Looked lonely <br />and forsaken. Do you have enough <br />heart left to fill the rooms, <br />to ripen the grapes <br />to bring your very soul <br />to fruition? <br /> <br />Are grapes hard to grow?<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/okie-from-skokie/
