I don’t envy his power to make the call
I cannot. Vines heavy in night air,
water-sequined leaves under picking lights.
Men coiled, stainless steel blades the shape

of crescent moons. On his word alone,
the men will plunder; grapes will fall into
half-ton bins. Brix and acids recorded
with birthweight. We’ll never know the wine

he could have made had he picked another
night, before the rain. I saw shrivel
from the heat, yet he refused a mercy

harvest. I feared mud and rot. How often
have I not chosen from my heart, how often
have I failed to wait?

Jennifer Trainor is currently a winegrape grower and lives on a small vineyard in Napa Valley. Formerly, she was a software company founder and market researcher. She is a member of the Colossus Circle of Women Poets. She was born and raised in San Francisco and has a master’s degree from Yale.

View David Joel Kitcher’s selected works.