of grape tales

The most lush grapes are nailed to the highest branch of the tree,
this is what you are told, climb up high
scab your knees and mud your shirt before
you taste sugar leaking into your skin

certainly, ask what makes us climb?
I climb for fear of standing alone
before the ripening of raisin and wine
you, it is another story, one I am entitled
to read at my own pace.

I imagine you a statue, gold,
lying with grapes to your side
my wild imagination; stereotypical and vain
prods me to the making of my own wine
dark, sharpness- a few things
you will not taste, I hope

As the alcohol rounds for yet another year
in the cellar, the smell of dampness
and cologne, old and citrus-like reaches me
I lean for bottles, preserved for sweetness
imagine the old vine by the gates that lead me home
we climbed those gates once
wanting sweetness, no neighbors to catch our
tumbling like rotten apples
we crave the furthest grapes, right to this moment

half the bottle in my hand, perhaps makes me wonder
sometimes wanting the impossible is easier
than working for possible routes with the same
extensions, like grapes that eat half the sunshine
keep the rest sizzling by the buzz of the summer bees.