Wild Grapes

I come upon wild grapes — not the healthy clusters of the vineyards, but here, and there, a few pale berries, tiny and round, dangling from raw vines.

Every leaf, every stillness of the woods makes me stare, there is no bounty, one could gorge, one could eat, and I want for you to see how precious these wild things are — they matter; they glow. Nothing close and good can compare to their wildness; yet they belong to shade, and wind. Their bounty is here, however, beyond my reach.

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