How can the grapes endure such grief?
What forgotten strength contained within
their skins must they summon,
now that the pickers have come with shears
to fill their empty baskets?
They must be aching,
knowing they’ll be tossed in the press
that will crush every drop of life from them.
There’s nothing subtle about destruction.
It doesn’t steal over you
like the fleeting shadow of a wren at twilight,
but lands like a stone on a toe.
Great is the grief of the grapes!
More Sunday’s Whirligig #241
More Pantry of Poetry and Prose #5 at Poets United
No true patriot is petty.
Yesterday’s cauldrons are not meant for today’s soup.
She who broods lives only to hate.
The dust will endure long after you are gone.
It is clear that no one will miss the sarcastic person.
Athwart is a word seldom used, for obvious reasons.
More Sunday’s Whirligig #132