as tight on the stalk as if hammered into place,
the swelling unripe juveniles are almost
burgundy, promising yet withholding
and the ones they have come for, the highest
blue-black clusters wearing a dusting of white,
veiled dancers, tantalize in the wind.
Wrens weaving in and out, small bugs, pale sun.
Two bony old people in the back forty,
one holding the ladder, the other ascending.
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