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.

Poem from before Roan was

My son is set to be born.
I feel no insecurity in informing you that he will never, not ever, not even once

be yours.

There are so few places like that on earth.
Where belief becomes so close to being fact.
I call something that can’t be owned my own.
Which is another way to say
I’m someone’s dad.