FRUIT OF THE VINE

With them, it was love,
growing from the soft, black earth
on a vine that trembled
with its own green mystery.
Buds were a holy thing, the fruit
of other vines, of other love,
worth waiting for, and dreaming.
But this . . .this stirring,
this unfolding of the deepest part,
exposing it to the sun . . .
it was a wild thing, and bright,
and it grew with tears of dew,
and light.  Love was strange,
and new; and not even night
could stop its spread,
or winter, or a sign of red.

			Lucille Hamilton