Last beads of moisture
And hope
Have evaporated
Sweaters are shed
We file with buckets
Into the rows
One by one
Bent over
Or on knees
We gently cup the dark
Heavy clusters
In warm palms
Crush mint underfoot
Buckets fill
Men in tractors reach
More
Sumptuous food
Spread
La Vendemmia is done
To be drunk
In time and quantities
That are
Sobering
