Ripe

We came home from the weekend
From camping with our friends
We walked around the homestead
But first we checked our hens

The girls were all aflutter
They strutted and they preened
They knew they’d done a good job
Of eggs they’d laid thirteen

As we walked the vineyard
The purple grapes popped out
Some bunches dark as midnight
Some ripe without a doubt

A few days is a small time
And weekends go by fast
The garden seems to know it
The fruit is ripe at last

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