Who am I

to be blessed with a baby

who loves grapes;

and me, with legs and feet to stand,

hands and fingers to work,

eyes to watch and ears to listen?

The juice runs down between my fingers

as my knife works.  It drips from my wrist onto the white plate

where I wipe the purple skins and quarter the fruit.

Who am I to be blessed with the Time to stand here

peeling grapes?