Purple black, they hang above me,
Vines wound tightly ’round tall trees.
Sweet grape smell makes my mouth water
Floating on late summer breeze.
My heart catches in fond memory,
Drifting back to childhood days
When I stood here, staring upward:
My first sight of sweet wild grapes.
Skin so tough, I had to bite hard,
Not so sure I’d like the taste.
But the taste so sweet, I craved more
Snatching them to eat in haste.
Momma stuffed them in the pockets
Of her dress and then we’d eat
As we climbed the hill that led home,
Summer dust beneath my feet.
How I’d love to turn the clock back,
Though I know that no one can.
Muscadines in Momma’s pockets,
My hand safe within her hand.
Copyright © 1998 by moleta ruth mccarter. All rights reserved.
