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POETRY BOOK THREE: Your Writing Hand
Grape Picking

Wild grapes that hide behind the wall
Get all their light from morning sun;
They grow up to be rather small,
And darken blue before they’re done;
Ignoring Mother Nature’s call,
They ripen early just for fun.

I’m picking grapes from off the vine
And dropping them inside my sack,
They stain my hands with purple wine
And bending over hurts my back;
But I’m thinking, oh how fine
Will be the feasting on my snack!

|| My Poetry ||