Grapes ripening on a little vine in the backyard hang in indiscreet bunches, decorative baubles, playful and teasing,
not plump yet, turning a sugary shade of magenta from frosted green – perky, still firm, the color of spring.
Promising. Not the kind you want to pluck, yet.
I contemplate readiness. And time. Desire, Impatience, and the satisfaction of ripeness. The kind that you’ve waited a season for. The kind that fills your mouth with so much pleasure you forget your name
and makes you glad you waited.