Ripeness

Grapes are ripe and will fall to mists.
They ripen like rainbows on sun day.

We are seventy, ripe for the subsidy
Which is more years less ripe tumor

Which is ripe humor of a belly ache
When all is ripeness to turtle deaths.

Turtle is ripe to lie dead on a beach,
Worker on sea to pluck rich grapes.

We are workers in same vine yard.
We are awaiting grapes of subsidy.

Season of mists is ripe fruitfulness,
We are happily dropping in baskets.

We work in the same yard as Milosz,
Our years ripe to fall in same basket.

(Taking off on poem Late Ripeness by Milosz Czeslaw)