Harvest
I waited
for a fanfare of fruiting
I imagined huge glossy bundles
of purple goodness dangling
instead you offered gradual sprigs
of ready berries
never a whole treeful,
some black-ripe while others
wait greenly.
Passing birds feed
leaving sprigs half empty
depositing wine stains below.
Your quiet ripening is a giving,
a relinquishing-
not a feast for the eyes; but
a dispersal of seeds
to ensure future generations
survive.
