Potential. A humble grape, with its meaty flesh sealed tight by a waxy skin, waits. This cluster, in mid-winter, missed the harvest. Missed the chance to be pressed and bottled into fine wine. Missed the chance to be sniffed and swirled and boasted over.
Instead, the cluster remained clinging to the vine. Instead, it waited to be a feast for a bird or a small beastie. Instead, it waited to shrivel and drop forgotten. Instead, it was plucked, pondered, photographed —and boasted over.