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The Poet Moet Hennessy

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Is it a grape; is it the wine or something else completely realigned?

 

Its almost morning; the thin veil of furlong skies breech and wave goodbye as the sunrise shines on the thin skin of grapes that glow, those that grow and reach up to make this summers best pick for wine.

 

 

Most the grapes are gathering in crowds taking their turn in their thin violet skin, basking in the sun. However grapes of singularities that exist are wishing they were not left on the vine or on their own for they matter to explore certain realistic ramifications. The bachelor grapes take the chance that harvest hands will escape them and will be left all alone to die on their own sturdy vine, never having an opportunity to become an aromatic and majestic hand picked wine. It’s possible some of the best grapes ever produced are left behind on vines and are never picked and will never win a single quarterly wine judging. And so it is a few excellent grapes will go to their death unnoticed. Perhaps like many before them, death will unwrap wishes.

Perhaps in truth in these vineyards may be that some grapes are not picked because it’s would not be worth taking time away from the mass of grapes, or maybe it’s just because the pickers for one reason or another, never see the potential in picking the single grapes that may indeed just be the one thing that makes that specialized bottle of vino. Regardless these grapes thin skin thicken with the season and as winter approaches they cling to the vine with intent on one day possibly exalting to a premium bottle of wine.

Winter is here, the pickers are gone and most of the other grapes are on their way to their destiny. The unattended passed up grapes must curls in between the sky and ground hoping in the winter freeze not to fall down. They must wait and keep trying to stretch out existence against the shuttering frost of another breached season. Time in the winter slowly grows and so alone a few hang with nothing but hope. Although the judging continues throughout the year, it’s become increasingly clear the freeze has descended upon these grapes and left them alone on the vine. It does however leave time to contemplate why some grapes are chosen and some are not. Conclusions divide right from wrong, weak from strong, and maybe just how far unfair it is, in a winter song.

By the end of winter the thawing brings conclusions. The grape comes to the realization that it probably has nothing to do with the beautiful color of skin, or that they miss how robust the flavor may have become. If only once the grape thought; I had been selected to be one chosen for bottling. But with almost three hundred grapes left on the vine throughout the last several years of harvesting, these thoughts become as useless as learning the consequences of life too late.

No sometimes the vine contends it can be a simple little thing like your geographical location, how close you’ve become to those harvesting hands. It might be you’re shine does not meet the sweet pale soft skin the harvester perceives. It can be a grape that almost seem pre-sweetened, or of being a Y chromosome ripen grape that tends to lean into the forward posture during the summer solstice. And although others have passed the little grapes by on this arduous journey of growth, here today at the end of winter it no longer matters. The grape comes to understand why they call this crazy thing the “game of life”. The cold winter has risen up against your truth and perspectives, leaving only a romantic gesture and a few marooned words of encouragement. Maybe you’ve been too long hanging from this dying vine. As my realization and understanding of this injustice finally begins to be observed by the core of my existence, a total surprise comes upon me shining. I've notice a new harvester’s face in the fields has arisen, and with a new spring in his step he begins walking right toward me. This harvester hands are reaching out for me, a single grape amongst a sea of purples, his hands land softly under my full belly body of beauty, and I become so excited I can feel the warmth of a new summer and a new exotic wine about to be unleashed on the world, “me”. I can’t believe it, finally I’m going to be picked as the one of the great grapes for the quarterly judging. But then I hear him say something awkward about me. He ask the other old time harvester a question as he touches me so gentle, has this great big beautiful yellow sunflower plant been growing here along side these grape vines since last seasons picking? Do you mind if I take it home and tend to it in my garden?

 

Well……I guess this explains a lot.

 

 

 

 

Comments (2)

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Very nice... your thoughts tend to wander in this piece, finding philosophical points along the way.

This comment was minimized by the moderator on the site

Some truth here, however I just released to your site for the first time a complete and finished work of mine. I normally only release first edition works on line. (In need of work) What are your feelings on Aqueous Umbilicus?

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