It’s the season for picking grapes.
Mist in the morning softens the cold
And sunshine warms their skins
As the shadows lengthen. Now
Is a time for creation or undoing.
Bulging bags of dark mystery
Have swollen from spring-tight berries
Once prickly with sour goodness.
Ripe now with sugar, but teetering
Between perfection and wind-burn,
Between the mellow fruitfulness of Keats
And Eliot’s dull head among windy spaces.
Heavy on the branches
They feel the promise of their weight.