Row after row of
green vines cling to wooden posts,
spiraling through twisted wire, left and right, left and right
so they may become drunk with the sun and fat with child.
The purple fruit, heads lolling like
revelers after a bacchanal,
cannot resist the gravity of soil and the inevitability of rain.
Their liquid dreams are soon pressed and stored in dark cellars,
illusion and pleasure aging before
into a palate yearning for the purpose of paradise.
But to taste a vintage with the perfect swell of sweetness,
beatifically pure and beyond the pale of inebriation
is perhaps to taste the wine at Cana, water free-flowing,
the cellar never empty, the vine always growing.