Vine

• Imogen Reeves, Grade 7
• Poetry
• 2015

Fingers reach out from the vineyard earth,
Tendrils reach delicately, slyly at first,
The fingers engulf the frame of the vine,
Ensuring its qualities will be so fine,
Silently strangling, a clever snare,
Then the grapes flourish, filling the air,
Sweet and delectable, crushed so fine,
Then left in a bottle labelled wine.