Bring the rain leave the sun

Grapes for mother

My mother's grapes they sit deflating

In the fridge on a white foam tray

They purple, they two waiting to be

thrown out or eaten

"When you going to eat these?"

I ask. Looking at the poor thing, they

must be deflating because of the smell

of the cut onions

Because when we have hope we're left

out still hoping that the sky would

Open for us when everything seems

Impossible

"When the times right."I laugh at that

I laugh at me, my mother, the poor

grapes, the universe, even things that

aren't meant to be laugh at

My mother

Replied like the two grapes would last in

There forever, like they'll wait for her

nicely round, nicely juicey

Nicely purple, nicely fresh the same.

-ashes poetry