The vines sleep under a sky of cold silver, their twisted arms reaching up in defiance, in patience, in the long exhale of dormancy.
Winter in the vineyards is stillness and silence, a hush that carries the weight of seasons past and the promise of what’s to come. The leaves have long since crisped and fallen, the last of autumn’s fireworks snuffed out by frost, and now the vineyard waits.
But beneath the gnarled wood and the barren trellises, there is movement. Unseen, slow, the heartbeat of another vintage beginning in the dark. The roots stretch deep, hidden beneath soil thick with winter’s damp chill, hoarding carbohydrates, the energy reserves that will fuel the coming season’s growth. Dormancy is a rest, not an end. It’s the deep breath before the growing season roars back to life.
And then, winter pruning. The growers arrive, shears in hand, their breath hanging in the morning air, fingers numb but steady. Old wood must go, cut back to let the vine focus on its best canes. Decisions are made with the practiced eye of those who know. This shoot, not that one; this bud, not the others. Precision shapes the future. The cuts are clean, final. Each wound a map of potential, each absence making space for what will come.
Then the weeping begins. The vines cry out, but not in sorrow. The sap rises, thick and slow, pushed upward by the stirrings of life returning. The wounds glisten with droplets of clear liquid, the first sign that the slumber is ending. Call it tears, call it lifeblood, this is the moment when winter loosens its grip, when the vines whisper that they are ready.
The vineyard floor is alive, even when the sky is grey. Cover crops hold the earth together, roots tangled deep, feeding microbes that turn decay into nourishment. The rain soaks through, replenishing what the dry months stole. Frost lingers in the dawn but melts by noon, leaving the rows slick with new beginnings.
As temperatures climb toward an average of 10°C (50°F), the vines awaken from dormancy. The buds begin to swell, cell division accelerates, and the first green hints of another season stretch toward the sun. But for now, winter holds its own quiet magic. The vines may seem lifeless, bare against the pale sky, but they are gathering strength. Resting, waiting, whispering secrets to the soil. The stillness is not emptiness, it is preparation. And when spring finally calls, they will be ready to answer.
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