Wild grapes,
purple bunches,
Multi bosomed prehistoric fertility figures,
Unable to breath without popping.
Huge, paw leaves, snake vines,
Curling tendrils,
Corkscrewing into the ground and trees.
Rows of
stump fences,
Reminiscent of acres of trees, slain,
Roots upturned make barricades, entwined,
As lovers alternating between embracing and restraining.
Stump spikes forming giant webs,
Capture the grapes for consumption.
We arrive,
the gentle warriors.
Buckets for the spoils from the battle.
Opulence abounds.
Barren stumps
Embarrassed with their inappropriate produce.
Bunches dangle, like pans from the gypsies' wagon.
We begin,
pull, tear.
I yank, unraveling an earthly garment, a cache.
Collecting charms from a golden chain.
Starving beggars surrounded
With the pleasure of uninterrupted sustenance,
Remaining until all is devoured, naked.
Our buckets
satiated, stagger.
Prosperous sharecroppers,
Glutting ourselves on the profits,
Arriving solely to harvest
The ease of nature's achievement;
Ignorant of our required portion.
Mouths
tasting sweet juice, sticky jelly,
Intoxicating wine, return home.
Pick, squeeze, stir, the colorful orbs,
In retaliation
Stain dark our hands,
Memory for days of their sacrifice.
And so,
disregarding grace,
We experience the land's prosperity.
Capturing its assurance of continuity,
Mid circle,
We tame and make our own
The wild grape.
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More from
Anne's Journal:
Article
1: Last
Week, I Got Old (A
humorous essay on my "aging" process) 10/26/00 (2 min.)
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