New Vines

When I settle down to write these hills,
I find them already too famous,
their exact hues committed to 
the vast asylum of art, over and over again.

And just as this august Tuscan sun
has spun its reliable roundabout
for thousands of vintages and many
years before Etruscans planted vines,

I find, in the splashing of your tiny feet
at the pool’s edge, my own repetition 
or replication in, insistent infant needs,
freshly bottled by newly acquired language.

We are new here, and you, newest of all,
help us use negligent adult eyes
to see this year’s fruit hanging heavy,
as if for the first time, for human kind.