bread and wine

what is it to sip the wine?
as you go out to the vineyard,
harvest the grapes,
only to cut your finger on the vine.
the past sips smooth, processed, flavored.
the future promises new sweetness.

what to do with the rupture of pruning?
the exposure, tearing, and tenderness.
water and wait, day by day.
what is this wine?
drink and thirst no more.

what is it to tear from the loaf?
fuel for the worker off to the wheat field,
bending, lifting, digging, toiling.
collecting and separating.
sweating at the very beds previously planted,
now bidding farewell to the chaff.
breaking the body down,
for the bread of life to rise.

what to do with the wait?
looking for the living among the dead,
and finding him there.
fall into his arms,
the one for whom none of my doors seem locked.
what is this bread?
taste and see.

there’s a right now feast,
at the table currently dined.
yet only a taste, a sampler,
a higher reservation reserved.
it both satisfies and summons,
quenches and teases.
who is this?
this bread, this wine.

what to do with the slow?
the flow seemingly long to ferment,
yeast slow to rise.
but before me is being prepared,
aged wine, artisan bread,
the finest of fare.
blood on the hands,
sweat on the brow.
breaking for the breaking out,
delicacies from the delicate,
redeeming the remembrance.
take, eat.
a humble bow.
more is coming,
of what i’m tasting now.