Midday shadows converge on the
Grape that fell from the vine.
On fallow ground its crimson body is
Soiled by the loam, bruised by scattered
Rocks & roots, mocked by circling aves,
Disowned by the vineyard master himself.
In that noon hour, the grape is squashed by
A foreknown heel, its juice flowing out on
Fallow ground as shadows converge once more.