Harvest

He groped the vines
Reaching inside
For the succulent berries
Parting the leaves to get
To the sweet, sticky juice,
To get it on his fingers
Smear it on his face
Stick his nose into the bush
Sucking in the sweet smell
Stroking, licking, and caressing
The tight cluster
Fighting off the tendrils
That tore at his hands
As his rape of the harvest
Brought him to ecstasy
Leaving the disheveled vines
Hanging sorrowfully
In his wake.