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.