Sunlight fingers its way through leaves,
a glint, a pulse of green and gold.
The vine is knotted, anchored deep,
its veins murmuring earth’s slow breath.
Branches curve, burdened with their yield,
thick clusters slung like ancient coins,
a promise hung between sky and soil—
this union sweet in its ripening.
You draw from me the sap, the thread,
each bond soft yet sinewed, taut,
as roots and tendrils weave unseen,
binding the weight of seasons\' creed.
This closeness, raw, fertile, alive—
no chasm breaks, no branch estranged.
Together we swell; the harvest bows,
the pressing ache of fruit made full.