The Weight of the Vine

A heavy cluster of dark grapes hung low against the sun-warmed stone of the terrace wall, pulling a loose raffia tie free from its rusted iron ring. Fruit that has taken the whole summer to sweeten does not belong trailing in the grit. Keeping my small grey companion secure within the fold of my coat, I stepped forward without haste. I lifted the woody cane with steady fingers, bearing its fragrant weight, and looped the coarse fiber firmly back through the eyelet until the stem rested balanced and proud once more against the masonry. A man respects what the earth yields; when you give a vine its rightful support, it answers with patience.