Vineyard in Dresden
The path between the ivied walls
is paved in standstone. Grass
grows from the cracks. I follow
the trails of childhood.
The cobwebbed door
has not been opened in a long time,
but someone cleared the steps
leading to it. I climb
the stairs into the vineyards,
breathe history, mine and the land’s.
Lush and green, the grapes
promise a rich harvest.
Below, the river sings a love song
to the city that is no longer mine.
Eighteen years change
a person and a place.
Not even the trees
are the same; the drought
felled the old oak in the clearing
we called the witches’ dance hall.
But the hills and the river
are still there, and dearer
to me than the castles
and cathedrals that lure the tourists.
And the summer light
through the maples remains
unchanged, as all else
grows old and distant.
About the Author: Agnes Vojta grew up in Germany and now lives in Rolla, Missouri where she teaches physics at Missouri S&T. She is the author of Porous Land (Spartan Press, 2019). Her poems recently appeared in Red River Review, Minute Magazine, Nixes Mate Review, The Blue Nib, As It Ought To Be Magazine, Former People, Thimble Literary Magazine, and elsewhere.
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Image Credit: Eugène Atget “The Old Château, Sceaux” (1923) Digital image courtesy of the Getty’s Open Content Program.