These clouds of Italy are grown on vines,
Infidels of skies, fruit bearers of wine-veined
Marble, fertile in spite of its own lifeless tableau,
Here thrives the succulent garden of the alone,
Where turns aside the burnt nape of the plowman,
Voyager of the cool midnight seas of the mind,
Up to this arable vine of sighs from outworn gods,
And hears his heart once more give up its throne.

I worship the mattock that tends my Spring field ..
The Apple tree with it's Fall yield ...
The tractor that criss crosses the meadow ..
The firewood keeping me warm in the hard months of Winter ..
I pay homage to the Summer rain ..
Give thanks in May before our pollinators every day ...
Pay respect to my water well on parched evenings ...
Most grateful indeed for every change of Season ...