Purple Vineyard

Purple Vineyard

++++++++++Mistress Phoebe always grew green grapes on the wrought iron. From whatever tradition I did not know, but she always told me to make sure: the green grapes on the trellis, the purple ones on the soil beds. “The greens were best. Sweet for flavor, but green for sour.”
++++++++++I never thought much of this compulsion. It didn’t mean much to me anyway.
Day in and day out, I nurtured the fruits with a conservative touch of honey. Nothing snapped or rotted in my gentle management; nothing was purged or infected. My delicate care produced dulcet delicacies, but to what overextended extent, I could not help but humbly boast that I indeed seeded the green grapes higher up on the bar. I planted the purples into the floor and hurried a spray of water. No time for the ground-based grapes.

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++++++++++I harvested nectar from the vines that night.
The soothing luminescence casted a purple glow on the garden, a color so rich and noble it could have been royalty. Carrying a wooden pail, I knelt besides the cold steel and picked. Tch, tch, tch… The steady snap of fruit vines echoed softly in the breeze… but that snap did not remain steady.
++++++++++Slowly, the weight of my harvest grew upon me. Either by darkéd weariness or collected abundance, I did not know. By some midnight magic, my purple grapes doubled in size: saturated with sugar and plump as plums. As my buckets toppled, I toppled.

No one believed me when I spoke of the twilight peaches in the vineyard. Mistress Phoebe continued to insist the green grapes be planted on the trellis. I objected the compulsion now, for I knew the purple grapes grew the sweetest under the blanket of night.

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