A Grape and its Journey Through the Inevitable Passage of Time

How fruitful the harvest
that bears even a single grape,
if such a grape were to feed the gods.

How crisp such a grape,
How sweltering succulent
dripping,
   dripping,
               drop
sickeningly pleasantly acquiescent to its core
forgiving, believing, submissive.

How such a grape does carry its agrarian baggage,
How it does carry its wounds
How such a seed did sprout from such a sour and pluckèd babe,
a particular puckering acidity that stays with you all afternoon
that infects the taste buds
and turns water
and ham sandwiches
and memories
sour

How such a grape does wither and wilt
a sin eating its way out
a certain maliciousness that consumes the grapes from its very core
until all that is left is a flaccid husk
bone dry
brittle yet impossibly chewy
discarded
regretful

Why is it that men with pocket watches are always running out of time
such a fleeting thing hates to be waited on
and it is much easier to take a grape off the vine than out the air.

So inevitably fast and tiringly slow
that no one definition could ever be
quite as spot on,
yet irreconcilably disparate,
than it is now.
       The grape is born
       The grape is picked
       The grape is swallowed
Disease dug crooked talons into malleable flesh
and made it bitter and rotten and candy-sickening
and I’ve never eaten the last grape at the bottom of the fruit bowl.

Soon, it is much too late,
yet just recently it was much too early
coming
  going
gone
catch it in your mouth
do not let it drop

How desolate the harvest
that did not produce enough
to feed an unsatisfied God
not quite good enough,
     horrid.