Adelaide B. Shaw

Wine Harvest

ripe concord grapes
in the backyard a contest
of spitting skins

It is a hot day in early September. My grandfather picks grapes from the arbor to make wine. My sister and I are told to stay out of his way and out of trouble. Grandpa's paisan arrives with additional grapes to supplement the backyard harvest, and they work together. By late afternoon several baskets stand in even rows. My mother will take one basket for jelly. The rest will be pressed into juice, strained, bottled and stored in the cellar.

sweat on his brow –
he brushes cobwebs
from last year's bottle