Mother of Stone, Cybele,
Stone Mother, keep me low,
Resigned, involved, confusable
As to the novice eye the vine
With wild thyme and caper, close
To your chemic soil—
Ash, tuff, and pumice—twined
In on itself to stand
Up under summer wind
And to condense the sure, sheer mist
That plumps until night harvest
Fruit tanged with sulfur, pressed
Then to a salt-tinged must,
Oak barrel ready,
A bit acidic, wit-dry, heady.