Off to dig a hole that is deep and wide,
enough to bury three and a half foot of railroad tie,
to hang warped, ripped, busted cattle fence against,
to trellis not yet purchased baby grape vines.
Not a branch, a pole, a shovelful of it is mine.
Not even the seconds bloomed minutes written leaves hours.
At work toward a harvest you will never taste is grace.
And grace is building trellises for another person’s grapes.