When the thick skinned,
Thin juiced, red
Grapes of summer
Ripen, love and war also ripen.

Their taste and texture
Don’t remind the old man
Who prunes them or his wife

Of home. For his part,
He’s aware bird and insect
Won’t let these strange grapes

Live out their old age
On the vines in peace:
He brings them to the kitchen table

Where they’re also beautiful.
And the wife
Smiles in protest.

Because this shortens
Her listening beneath the trellis
On quiet afternoons
To the bumblebees as they sip.