The vines cling to the peach trees to help them climb in their reaching the sun, like a small child lifts its arms meaning "up" when he needs a mother's smile

were but twigs snipped from places where they once were revered now left to grow down concrete walls in a waterfall from a loving Italian gardener's backyard to a car dealership lot down below

rooted and planted and nurtured and with a bad mother, they've been once again allowed to run wild and free yet they still offer heavy clusters of pearls and a sip of red wine, a jewel of jelly, their leaves for stuffing, and vines twisted and wrapped into wreaths, for these

I honor the grape