A humming wire, a field of grapes,
The farmer’s shadow slowly shapes
A world where two harvests softly meet,
The solar panel's tempered heat.
Not on a roof, nor barren ground,
But where the green and juicy sound
Of ripening fruit hangs low and sweet,
Beneath the sun’s divided street.
The panels, like a silver hand,
Cast shade upon the thirsty land.
The grapes, once scorched by summer's glare,
Now find a coolness in the air.
And from the vines, a power flows,
A double yield, as nature knows
That even shade can give and take,
For sweetness and for progress' sake.
The circuits hum a quiet prayer,
A modern chorus, joined by air
That whispers through the leafy rows,
Where light and life,
together grows.
. . .
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