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
being transfused
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.
~William Hammett
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