Fruit of the Vine
The beating heart dispenses many precious tonics,
so many scents and tastes that bleed into the world.
And each, distilled from a legacy of longings,
stain the history of a man until it won’t come clean.
From days of ignorance you did not understand
back when you discovered how steps are taken,
when you stammered your first, tentative words,
when innocence is something vaguely recalled,
you hoard the last of your unspoiled conscience
in a wineskin sewn from the folds of your faith.
Now is the vineyard to your uncorked vintage.
What goblet will catch every splash you pour
so your spirit will breathe before lovers drink?
What lips will touch the rim of your fragile glass
for just a potent sample of you, dry and sweet?
What mouth will eagerly relish your fermentation
and take into himself an elixir you cannot patent,
a sip you cannot name of blood becoming wine?
About the Poem
This poem brings metaphors of heart and blood into comparison with wine, complete with Biblical allusion. I tend to think that among the odd molecules and living things in our blood are unseen materials formed out of the soul. The soul creates these intangible fragments and only the soul can sense and identify them.
This poem is previously unpublished in print. This poem was finished May 26, 2003.