Purple Grapes Poem by James McLain

As for your coming out and being squeezed when ripe.
The setting the sun,
purple grapes dripped around vines, making wine.
Yellow is rose,
keeper of colors which holds the goblet.
Differences are the keys, keeper of days.
You think for the other each hand being right.
We are, are we naught but of they,
whom are made red of clay, but of the potters wheel.
When each glass is free, thee from thine.
As for the draft the vine rich earth from the soil.
Hangs bursting grapes of the likes, t'were ever watchful of this.
Which from of all, which it should be,
and be should it from which to be.
Empty of color and olive of tone it is stolen.
And the bright pink blush from each rosy cheek,
The red clay as it dries,
and it rains from beneath emerald eyes.