O
ne
comes
away
from others would not, not to succeed or to win
the farm Lismore with a
but to illuminate fiercely, not to lead but to
sense of awe. There’s little
plant a first vine where otherwise would have
ordinary in the persons
been uncharted mountain. Love is essential
and wines one finds here,
but simple. What we make of it is life, which
yet each one somehow opens one’s eyes
frequently isn’t. As I drifted home in my car,
to the miraculous in the ordinary. Mystery
through the now invisible wheat fields and
doesn’t lie in what’s shrouded or withheld or
greyed-out mountains, my hand throbbing
in the details we allow to peer through, but
slightly from its brief career as chewy toy, I
in that things are as they are. We have only
hazily thought: here still be dragons – tiny
ourselves to turn expectations and sever
amphibious ones, no more than the size of
clichés – not to prevail, but to remain where crickets.