He came to us from Australia, via Michigan
And brought the cuttings with him.
He nurtured those grapes as if they were his children.
Crunchy seeds, sour skins, but the flavor
Of the juice they made brought us closer
To the beginnings of this earth.
Grandfather worked the land long
After he retired. Vegetables, flowers –– and grapes.
In his eighty-ninth year the sun struck him down
And for years after, we drank our stock
Of deep purple juice from his vines
As if it were his blood.