photo by Gary Crabbe
I wrote this poem about 30 years ago. It appears in my first book, At the Year’s Elbow:
Raisins
The vineyards tumble
down hills
like children
in the summer evening
before their parents
call them to bed.
The vineyards green and heavy
promise wine,
glinting secret in casks,
or raisins,
the disappointed ones,
the grapes
who settled for less.
Raise sins,
rays ins,
wrinkled and sweet,
fly like,
sticking together
in boxes.
Dry and dark,
poor raisins,
never wine,
no longer young
and full of juice.
Over sweet
memory of summer
in mince pies.
photo from seriouseats.com
Scattered Showers in a Clear Sky 