The chalice of wine, so dark and so rare,
Is filled up by hands made bristly and brown;
Vines are best tended by arms stripped down bare
And rip’ning sun peels away youth’s soft down.
Assessing the hue, eyes narrow and gleam;
Vintner’s stern love tries the mirroréd light,
He notes the bouquet, compares to the dream,
Anticipates failure, seeks out delight.
With trembling hands, the cup now is raised—
Hard-won is the banquet and tired the host—
Yet guests need be fed and ancestors praised.
Gathered at table are both child and ghost.
So, raise high the goblet, speak out the tone;
Love can’t be sated by drinking alone.
Photo by form PxHere
