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grapes
Out on the porch,
we watched your careful father
unfasten grapes
from stiff vines.

In the ebbing light,
His clever speckled hands
fished between the shadowed leaves,
Recovering some sweet pebble,
then another.

Some days he can't find words, you said,
And some days he's like Newton himself.
But sometimes, very rarely,
there are mending days:
when the light falls on
a quiet place he has always known,
and he becomes part of it.

We must have
turned back eventually,
hurrying to put away dinner in the
buzzing brightness,

Somehow, though,
I only remember an infinity:
a pane of light across a dark lawn,
The illuminated man suspended
in a leafy windswept void,
his face obscured.
Dylan Holmes
Published in Issue 39