Scribble

If — as Ibn Kaldoun once paraphrased it — the earth was a grape floating in the water, then a bundle of grapes is … and, here, the catapult of the metaphor, the kid jumping down hard on one end of the see-saw in the hopes of sending the sibling temporarily skyward — but, sorry. We were speaking about the grapes. We were speaking about the water. So, perhaps, a harbor. Today, I’m a harbor, throwing welcoming birds like breadcrumbs into the air. Tomorrow, I’m a boat. Did I ever pluck a grape from the sea? A boat comes into the harbor to rest. There are swarms of grapes in the water. A boat comes into the harbor to rest. What’s to be done with all these grapes? A boat comes into the harbor to rest. Did a kid ever bob for apples at the county fair and then get sucked into the bucket of water? A boat comes into the harbor to rest. So what’s the worry, then? A boat comes into the harbor to rest. I could crack a dumb joke about beauty walking a razor’s edge and being hunted like a crocodile, but, today, I’m needed as a harbor, so I’ll be the harbor (and I’ll never not be) and I’ll hand the joke off to anyone who actually needs it, because — right now — I don’t; and, tomorrow, I’ll be needed as a boat, so I’ll be the boat (and I’ll never not be), off to find the finest grapes, and I’ll stomp them all into a wine-dark sea, hand most of it off to a certain blind man and return, a boat and a harbor coming into a boat and the harbor to rest.