poems

Grapes We Reap

Oh, the grapes we reap

On hillsides steep,

Amid Chianti’s splendor;

Your back gets sore,

But you harvest more,

With fingers growing tender.

 

There’s a great degree

Of comradery

With folks from all around;

And what you hear

Drifting to your ear

Is a multilingual sound.

 

When the work is done

And it’s time to run

Away in all directions,

You’re sure to know,

As off you go,

There’ll be fond recollections.

****

 

 

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