Someone else’s grapes

Off to dig a hole deep and wide
enough to bury three and a half foot of railroad tie
and hang warped, ripped, busted cattle-fence against
to trellis unpurchased infant grape vines

not a branch, a pole, a shovelful is mine
not even seconds bloomed minutes wilted leaves hours

at work toward a harvest I will never taste is like grace
building trellises for someone else’s grapes.