Once upon a time,
Jesus, who called himself the true vine,
turned water into wine
in an act of love.
All over the world, right now,
a million grape vines
are performing the same miracle
slowly; silently; aided by the sun;
their roots, like farmers, coal or diamond miners,
searching in the earth
for the most precious;
it doesn’t hit the headlines
but who dares say
a patient, silent, unsung love
is any less a miracle?
Who dares say that grape vines
do not seek and love
their beautiful perfection?
miracles, an act of love;
love, that miracle unearned –
what may we do to earn, to drink,
that wine of Love, but love?
*
[with a bow to Hafiz]
This is great Michael, what a lovely explanation and so well thought out. I really enjoyed reading this one. A toast to the writer. CHEERS! ! ! Hic! ! ! Love and hugs Ernestine XXX
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Despite my expertise in wine I had never ever thought of it this way. M, this is a joy to read; and absolute joy. Your pensive pen awakes my mind as always. Hugs, t x