About The Wine Poem by James McLain

A firmer grasp upon the grape, some have.
Eons pass,
and mountain water clears what always is.
Many do what mother's never should.
While a father's vineyard grows but heady weeds.

Does a certain type of green or purple grape.
Grow aught but Grace?
Does a woman's golden hand,
when kneeling down is pulling all the weeds.
Thus produce a better seed as seeds do know.
Music makes the leaves turn green,
as leaves ideally grow.