We sit in the hovel
Spinning tales within hash clouds
And over his harvest of grapes
I, a lost pilgrim
He, the lordly Host
A sojourner here, and a fool,
I habitually keep reaching for the plump, round choices of his vine,
my rabbi-sage watching,
mirth in his eyes
Chuckling his own prayer-joke to the skies
Supping with my Host,
he points an ancient brown finger to... to what?
To what does my shaman direct my soul?
Eternity is in this gesture.
To where does the hand of the Ancient One guide me?
...
He points to the brown and smashed grapes,
He points to the runts, leftovers, misfits
Seeing but not understanding,
Listening but having no ears to hear,
I am bewildered.
Yet he is laughing, praying
Pointing
"Take and eat."
Who am I to question God?
Humbly I obey:
I Eat The Misshapen Grapes
... and they are the best of all.
Now, feasting, we laugh at Americans
and their love for the shiny
and how they have forgotten
the taste of bruised fruit
But not I
I will remember His Salvation
I am a stranger no longer in this land
For the secrets of the heavens are being laid bare:
eat the cursed grapes;
Consume the God-damned ones.
Their taste is sweetest.
