The Vine Miracle
A summer, I returned to my father's farm vine.
I spotted him alone in the field, sipping wine.
Come here, my son, he said, smiling.
I have a question to ascertain your grasping.
"See this son?" he pointed to a ripe vine.
Please explain to me the magic of wine.
It is no magic..." His gaze made me sigh.
"It's a miracle," he said as he drank hereby.
This vine was nothing past January.
It was merely a wilted, dry stub filthy.
Spring awakened this ancient wood.
Vigorous, strong, green, with mood.
Summer brings these auld seeds to life.
This time it grew bigger and ran rife
The wine we made smacks when sip.
In it, I am able to forget the hardship.
Your mother's grave, close to mine
Are you clever than me? Will you dine?
Wondrous miracle, I said, sipping my wine.
Do you think I'm a clinging vine?
Written: November 16, 2021
''V'' New or Old Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
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