Photo by Famished Writer @ Madd Potter, in California
The Grapes In My Path
There are grapes in my path
on this abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
here, to pick and press, salvage and reap
for pleasure in pain
passion fruits of desire
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
sacrificial labors of love
done by your own hands
connected to home and earth.
Breaking backs, clinging sweat
under wool, denim, straw, in cotton
keeping more out than simply the sun
depleted soil
exhausted soul
bursting with strangled juice
bountiful, delectable
selected and hand chosen
always searching for more
scantily ripe for the picking
and You
likely in a hurry,
just drive by
clouds of dust in the lane
settling on skins of
clay and mud
day after day-
a boulder rolls
among the rows
hunched in fields
punched with toil
blistering leather gloves
servitude by season
migrants moving
with the benevolent harvest of
plump bursting strawberries
dipped by chocolate covered hands
the wrath of happenstance
gratefully destined from birth
to be eternally closer to earth.
