Deep in these barren winter vines life creeps
Like the silence before the music starts
Which is already part of the composition
I can no longer count the times
I have been down this valley
Lined with the scent of fermenting grapes
I wish I could remember the friend
Who told me about a group she ran for old people
Their stories of coming here with no English
Changing their names
Bringing her fruit from their gardens
Because stories are like aged wine
Without stories we are casual winetasters
filling a weekend
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