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?
