But ! They’re My Grapes

But! They’re my grapes for making wine — Mine!
Yeah? Who said so?

The squirrel is munching whole bunches and
robins one grape at a time, splatter purple
droppings on the patio.

Hey! These are my grapes.
Really? Nature grew these just for you?
Sunlight, moonlight, cloud water?
Yeah. Mine Mine Mine.

Even the mouse, who lives under the downspout spillway,
clambers over the arbor and picks out the
juiciest and fattest grapes, leaves his blue turds.

Get over it. Stop crying.
You’re not in charge, said Mother Nature.
You never were.
Never are.


About Ciletti

Jim Ciletti, an award winning poet, filmmaker, and author, is the 2010-2012, Poet Laureate of the Pikes Peak region, and for 41 years, poet-in-residence for the Orme School Fine Arts Festival. Jim gives many workshops on the writing and performance of poetry, and makes poetry house calls to create personal poetry events. Ciletti loves everything Italian, including cooking for family and friends, and loves to plant garlic, make homemade wine, and eating peaches and plums. "Everyday is Christmas, but you don't always get everything you ask for. Sometimes more. Poetry celebrates life."
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2 Responses to But ! They’re My Grapes

  1. Rosemerry says:

    a real case of sour grapes! though i bet they were not sour. Sigh. Dammit. And man, that mother nature, so pushy, always putting us in our place, reminding us we’re not in control. Never. Ever. Ever.

    lovely, r

    • Ciletti says:

      But the good news is, Sunday I harvested enough grapes to make wine and now have 4.5 gallons of juice and must fermenting in a six gallon bucket in the kitchen. Mother nature said, “See, there’s enough for everyone.” So good to hear from you. Thanks.

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