From the Vine

by Brett Rutherford

     Anon., from The Greek Anthology

As a green grape still hung
from your father's vine,
you refused me.

Ripe, ready to fall
to anyone's hand,
red in your prime,
you refused me again.

Just now we passed
in arbor's shadow.
I bowed to you.
Uncertain, you
turned your gaze.

Do you not remember?
Am I too old for you?
Has time not equally
puckered your
face and features?

Refused the grape
denied the wine,
may I not taste
the sweet raisin?