September grapes
want to become Riesling,
Crémant, Gewurztraminer.
Les Trois Châteaux intimidate me and my knee.
But isn’t three a lucky number?
Guided seniors stride by me.
I rest my tweaked meniscus and arthritic joint.
Resin bubbles out from spruces–
I chew that bitter gum.
Isn’t cortisone a better pain-grabber?
Summit swallows circle
three ruins and snap at insects.
I want to be unburdened and fly.
Above, my personal blue and orange color wheel pulls my spirit up.
Why do I have to be an earth-crawler?
I ask a hiker where are the storks.
He points down to their park in Eguisheim.
Caged and clacking their beaks,
they play their part for tourists.
When will I get to be a caged and boisterous boaster?
Map and compass no use: we are lost.
Completely turned around with no aerial clue.
Château du Hohlandsbourg appears.
Tourists have driven up to its paved plaza.
Is it so bad to be a day-tripper?
The ruins of Château du Pflixbourg
lead us round and round without blazes.
“Wo ist Ammanschwir?” I ask a German couple.
“Herunter.” Down there.
Do I look like a desperate old codger?
Along the River Fecht in Turckheim
I see two storks in slo-mo.
They wade for fish they forage.
Eyes down, they don’t caw or clack.
It’s me who gives them speech bubbles
that teeter on the edge of poetry and doggerel:
“We know it’s catch-and-release.
Please don’t call the fishing police.”
Guarded by a dragon,
Hôtel des Deux Clefs
welcomes us with a flagon
of Alsatian Riesling. The beast barred our way,
but we slide by his grin and grasping talon.
