-This poem reflects on grapes gathered in the cool hours of an early autumn morning, when dew, ripened fruit, and thinning leaves reveal the patient work of summer ready for harvest.
Before the sun has warmed the rows,
the grapes hang cool beneath the leaves,
each purple globe is filmed with bloom,
and beaded at the stem with dew.
The vines have climbed the cedar posts,
their tendrils tightened through the wire,
while thinning leaves allow the light
to reach the fruit in amber strips.
A wasp attends one broken skin,
its narrow body glazed with juice,
the shears click once beneath a bunch,
and purple weight fills both our hands.
By noon, the basket scents the porch,
the dew has vanished from the vines,
one cluster waits beneath a leaf,
where morning has not reached the fruit.