Through the Sieve

"Here's to your coffins—
May they be made of hundred-year-old oaks
which we shall plant tomorrow."
                          - Irish toast



Across the lake, a gray band of moving clouds 
sieves rain over vineyards. From where you sit
this summer afternoon, there's no evidence 
of the great labor that must have gone into 
the cultivation and harvest— just row after 
perfect row of vines and trellises; and inside 
the winery, bottles gleaming on every shelf: sweet, 
semi-sweet, dry. Later, when your brother-in-law jumps 
in the water for a swim, his dog whimpers. The dog follows 
him all over the house with a ball in his mouth, begging 
to play catch. Must be what it's like to have a kid,
he says. The night before leaving your separate ways
for home, you all sit around the picnic table outside.
The fridge must be emptied of everything you brought
and the cottage cleaned for the next group of occupants
(who complained about dog hair, the last time). Party
music drifts from one of the docks nearby, and 
the sound of a boat engine. Don't keep swirling 
the wine in your glass instead of drinking it; 
look at all those gnats hovering for a taste.