|Grapes grow everywhere here.|
rolling out over the vineyards every morning.
Snug in the shade of their thick leaves
they're rounded, not yet ready,
packed in tight clusters,
pendant, sightless, tart.
Later, the taste of them will be good:
dusky and sweet, with lightly bitter seeds.
You can steal a few from along the road
when the time comes.
They're not grown for eating of course,
not for your teeth to bite
through the dusty, honey-sweet skin,
not for you to brace your tongue
against the tempting, puckery sour.
All these grapes will be trampled down to their hints,
to swigs and swallows, to berry, oak, and flower.
In the summer I feel great kinship with those grapes,
sitting with my dusty feet, my shiny, muddy mind:
someone spray me down, let me ripen on the knobby vines.