They look like patience.

Old wood, cracked and scarred, holding up something soft and temporary. The vine doesn’t rush. It doesn’t ask if it’s ready. It just keeps doing the work—season after season—until sweetness happens on its own.

I like that the fruit grows low, close to the gnarled parts. Not at the flashy tips. Not where it’s pretty. But where the vine has already survived a few things.

Most of what matters seems to grow that way.
Under pressure.
On old bones.
With no audience.

You don’t taste the waiting, but it’s in there.