Winter is on its way:

           olives are worn

down by querns,

           and acorn-stuffed

pigs trot back

           happily to the barn.

The trees let go

           of dead things;

Fall ripens

           every fruit,

and grapes roast

           atop rocks,

shrivelling in

           mellowing sunlight.

Meanwhile, the children,

           each one warm-hearted,

gather kisses from

           their father, this farmer

whose house feels

           wholesome and whole.

Cow udders

           sink with milk;

and little goats

           well-fed

wrestle in the happy field

           with their horns.

The days

           become holidays.

And he—

           at ease

in the grass,

           his friends gathered

around a bonfire

           garlanding a bottle—

he tilts a libation,

           to you, Bacchus.