Mounds of fruit melt in the tired Friday afternoon,
and our feet enliven,
dance on fermentation grapes,
bubbling juices coloring
the toes warm,
yellow colors;
the soles yelp
like child-play, at each
bursting bond of grape-skin
—their own calloused,
rough skin seeming to them
much like some basalt
artistry, hardened by diurnal dance;
hard-ground juices gather in a barrel.
What will come from them is pure,
intoxicating, and our feet ache, anticipating
their reward, steamy baths lift
the glass-red tint and windchimes
call them, the sifting scent of supper lures
them to our chaliced, plump, embodied table.
With each sip we can taste their spirit.
