I am a grape
On the lowest branch of vine
A sour green ball full of acids,
As I age the vines I reside on
They droop.
Lowering me closer
And closer to the ground
I am not there yet.
But as I grow more near and ripe
I know what awaits
Death.
An animal shall surely come to eat
Or maybe people, will I merely be consumed and be no more?
Or will they ferment me in a barrel
And I turn to wine?