Santa Ynez Valley

    Long yellow dappled branches rise
    up with the wispy morning breeze,
    while, back-lit by the morning skies,
    climb dark limbs of the great oak trees.

    Around the delicate new leaves,
    like tassels hanging gold and green,
    a peeking sky of azure weaves
    and trickles slowly, in between.

    Each camel-colored hill is sewn
    onto the spreading valley floor,
    in tweedy coats of herringbone
    above the Santa Barbara shore.

    Small scattered vineyards patch the earth
    with furrowed rows laid in designs,
    and, grown precisely from their birth,
    unfold the fruit laced summer vines.

    Here, peaceful hours run long and warm,
    a bird’s voice carries one clear mile;
    this gallery where I transform
    my sullen heart to silent smile.