our driver begging him to hurry.
he says, as he steps up to the car,
plucks one for each of us.
knock me down. I have waited
my entire life to pick these grapes.
of notes in the dry October air.
The hills, now camels at dusk, stare
look to the dusty road
that meets the horizon. As if someone
waits for a relation, long lost,
to walk toward this remote village,
full of vines that have waited for his return.