clustered together
in their black robes,
waiting for their names
to be called,
waiting to become
more distinct
versions of themselves,
I whisper véraison
and if it makes you
uncomfortable to consider
these boys and girls
in terms of ripeness,
the fullness of fruit
waiting to be picked,
that’s understandable,
because after all,
if we’re honest,
there’s always something
slightly unnerving
about walking a vineyard
and casting a calculating eye
at all those vines
waiting to be thinned
all those grapes
waiting to be harvested,
all that fruit
waiting to be crushed
transformed and packaged
for our future pleasures.