Her broad, work-worn hand hoisted
my skinny seven-year-old buttocks upward
to slanting trusses, urging me past rust-flaked
bridge rails above Kansas creek-bed trickle.
We sought wild grape bunches,
August sun-burnished sweetness.

Higher, Jimmie, higher. There, that big vine. Yes!

So urged on, I farther climbed, stretched,
bucket's bail lashed to my belt,
my eager hands clutching vines,
stems, bunches, plunking wild Concords
onto the empty tin bottom,
bucket's growing weight
causing belt to sag.

Astraddle bridge's metal frameworks,
Through trellised trusses, I lowered harvest
overflowing into Grandma's welcoming, waiting hands,
her head thrown back, upturned face all unadorned plainness and girlish grin,
teeth a store-bought whiteness
more white than all her yellowed whiteness
pulled into a back-knot.

For me, grape jelly to cover baking day's
golden-crusted rolls and chicken crisp as fall leaves.
For her, wild grape wine to warm a winter's cold,
waiting for season's spin and summer grandson.