Drink this poem
This poem, o lover, might lead you
down a lost lane into a dark woods.
Or, it might become a gate
opening onto a sunlit, holy vineyard.
This poem, like any other,
can never tell the Truth –
but, it might expose, at times,
Its skeletal remains;
like the empty casks and kegs,
cups and flasks
of a holy celebration
we’ve yet to be invited to;
dregs of a wine whose taste –
even the nuance of its fragrance –
intoxicates and enraptures.
Poetry never tells the Truth,
but, it might, at times, become a rope-gate
opening onto the lush, green, fragrant
of a sunlit, holy vineyard.
O child of God, drink this poem (and others)
when the Tavern is shuttered and dark.