Wither Vineyard

At the end of the season 
The vines have to burn 
There was never a reason 
For winter wine grape return 

After the sun gets lower 
White landscapes arrive 
Indoors goes the sower 
Until spring rains again drive 

But how can you tell 
If the end of the crop 
Is just for a spell 
Or a death ever stop 

The question's not trite 
For attentive eyes 
There's wronger rites 
Than a boy who cries 

When rot is in roots 
The soil may need time 
Lace up your boots 
And shovel the grime